


When I'm gone...

by Hjoetra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Hospitals, Injury, Loss, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 47,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hjoetra/pseuds/Hjoetra
Summary: Post "The final problem"."To her, it was not an easy game, Sherlock, it was deadly serious to Molly Hooper and you know it all too well, she did not deserve that, our Molly."Sometimes we have to go through hell to understand what it means to love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there,  
> the first part is up :) Hope you like it and leave a comment.  
> I'm not a native speaker so please be patient...  
> Have fun!

After a short time steady breathing could be heard from the other end of the vehicle.  
Lapped by the day's events John Watson had fallen asleep in the backseat of the patrol car which was supposed to take the detective and his partner back to London.  
The tall man's gaze, seated beside him, was rigidly out of the window.  
He stared frowning into the darkness .  
Even though Sherlock Holmes looked calm and realxed, a storm was raging inside him.  
The day had emotionally broken him even though he would never admit that.  
His mind was working faster than ever leaving him no peace.  
Inexorably the past hours and years were reflected again and again in his mind palace but he could not find a satisfactory answer to the countless questions that tortured him.  
Throughout the years the Consulting Detective had relied on the brilliance of his mind.  
It was unacceptable for him to realize that he had been betrayed and blinded for decades.  
Eurus Holmes.  
A sister.  
His sister.  
A sister to whom the memories were only fleeting - barely tangible.  
A sister who was responsible for the death of his best friend - calculating, cold and yet of the highest strategic fate.  
Sherlock clenched his fists so that the leather of the black gloves stretched uncomfortably over his ankles.  
All these years he had been stupid and naive - blind for the obvious.  
Stupid and blind.  
He had been blinded by so much and had wasted his attention on nothingnesses.  
Frustrated the detective leant his head against the cool windowpane.

Slowly they left the rural area that Sherlock had once called his home behind and the number of passing houses steadily increased.  
It would not be long before they reached the outer edge of London.  
The old familiar moved within reach.  
And yet, at that moment, Sherlock felt like he was a stranger.  
He no longer knew himself and felt torn and empty inside.  
Everything he had ever believed he knew had been dreaded.  
His sister had forced him to feel things that he had sworn never to feel again.  
With practiced precession she had met him at the spot where he was most vulnerable.  
With masterly skill she had found the loose Jenga stone in the pile.  
The well-being of the people who were most important to him.  
Sherlock's gaze slowly moved to the sleeping man to his right wrapped in a blanket.  
John's hair was still soaked in cold well water.  
In long rivulets it ran down his narrow, sunken cheeks and dripped onto the collar of his shirt.  
Without a further knowledge of the human psyche you could clearly see that the last months and years had drawn John forever.  
The war, his injury, the loss of his friend, and more recently the loss of his beloved wife.  
Even though the friends had come to terms with each other again and John had repeatedly assured Sherlock that he didn't blame him for Mary's death the detective could not help but now and then quarrel with fate.  
Mary had also been close to him in a different kind of way.  
She was the friend-and truly titling a human as a friend was still extremely hard for Sherlock - understanding and supporting him and his often complex way of thinkng.  
She was capable of following his mental tracks more than John could.  
Mary's presence had not only enriched John's life and Sherlock had to admit that he as well missed the vivacious blonde more than he could say.  
Her loss hurt and had fundamentally changed the lives of both men.

Sherlock's eyes fell on John's closed eyelids.  
Unimaginable to never see this face again.  
And today exactly that fear had been his constant companion.  
John had been endangered by his fault before but not in any other situation had Sherlock felt so strongly that he had no control about what would happen next.  
Today he had been powerless. Just another viewer to watch a game he couldn't paticipate led by a game maker who liked to change the rules at will and to her advantage.  
Sherlock shuddered at the mere thought that this day might have been the last in John Watson's life.  
The detective could no longer imagine a life without his trusted friend.

Sherlock's mind wandered on and took a very unusual direction.  
The detective began to wonder what would have happened if he had not managed to solve Eurus's puzzle in time.  
Usually Sherlock did not stop himself with the "What-if"-question. It only was blocking his mind and giving free rein to emotional context.  
To portray horrible scenarios wasn't helpful in a serious situation - the detective was sure of that and yet at this moment his inner voice refused to remain silent.  
If John Watson had drowned in the well he would have lost not only his best friend but Rosie's father.  
The little blond girl with the happy laugh had become more and more important to him. Damn those emotions!  
Sherlock sighed.  
It was really amazing how quickly he had started to care, even though it was not even his own flesh and blood.  
Exhausted, Sherlock closed his eyes.  
The fatigue now had him in a tight grip.  
The efforts of the day took their toll.

Just as the detective thought he was about to fall into a pleasant twilight state three simple words echoed through his head like an echo.  
"I love you."  
The detective winced.  
From one moment to the other he was wide awake again.  
The memories hit him like a slap in the face.  
The coffin.  
The call.  
Molly.  
All of Eurus's tasks had been challenging, but it had been by far the most difficult one to convince Molly to say those words to him.  
He had not expected that when the dial tone on the line was sounding.  
How hard could it be to force someone to say a sentence?  
The difficulty behind it had become clear to him only moments later.  
Seeing Molly's face on the big screen during the phone call had not made it any easier and her reaction hit him hard.  
Seldom had Sherlock felt as guilty as at that moment.  
Molly was a woman and women think differently - the detective was well aware of that.  
But Molly had always been a strong one in his eyes.  
Intimidated and nervous, but never helpless.  
And to see her now on the screen as she uttered the redemptive words - small, lost and desperate - it felt like a stab with a dagger.  
Molly had become a friend over the years.  
And his friends should not suffer.  
But what really made him shiffer were Molly's words shortly before that.  
"Because it's true, Sherlock. It's true..."  
For a moment the world around Sherlock had stood still.  
His mind could barely handle what he just had heard.  
He understood and at the same time he did not.  
Emotional context - how he hated it.  
And still there was one thing for sure - Sherlock had had a bad feeling when Molly hung up and the connection died.  
Something had changed.  
Something was not the same as before.  
Something was broken beyond repair Sherlock sensed so.  
He just couldn't say what it was.

"You have to ask her forgiveness."  
Sherlock winced startled.  
Deep in his own thoughts he had not noticed that the former army doctor had awakened beside him.  
John looked at Sherlock clearly from the side.  
"What you did to her was not right."  
The detective shrugged indifferently.  
"It was a game, John. No more and no less."  
John's eyes darkened.  
"Not for her, Sherlock. You do many for us "mortals" incomprehensible things but that was not an easy game for Molly Hooper, my dearest.  
It was deadly serious to her and you know it all too well. "  
Ironically Sherlock continued to stare out the window and dared not looking over to his friend.  
John knew him well enough to realize that John's harsh words hit his friend harder than it seemed and he was aware of its importance.  
However he did not want to solemnise his triumph right now.  
"She just did not deserve that, Sherlock. Not our good Molly. "  
Sherlock swallowed hard and then nodded in silence.  
The car was rushing through the night on its way to London and the detective knew that his friend was right once again .


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rain drummed against the windowpane in a steady rhythm.  
> Molly's eyes were fixed on the tracks left by the water on the cool glass.  
> How much time had passed - she couldn't say.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is chapter number 2.   
> I hope you like it :)  
> Thanks for the comments beneath chapter 1.   
> I will answer as soon as possible - I swear.  
> Have fun!

The rain drummed against the windowpane in a steady rhythm.  
Molly's eyes were fixed on the tracks left by the water on the cool glass.  
How much time had passed - she couldn't say.  
Minutes?  
Hours?  
When had it started to rain?  
She felt stunned; unable to move or to think clearly.   
Only when her cat 'Tobby' stroked her legs the young woman awoke from her trance-like state.  
She turned to the counter she had leaned against and reached for the tea she had put there some time ago.  
But when she brought the cup to her mouth and took a sip she grimaced in disgust.  
The Earl Gray had already grown cold by now and tasted stale.  
And with the bitter taste in her mouth the throbbing pain within her returned.  
The pain she'd been trying to shed in the past few minutes.  
The all-consuming despair she thought she had fought successfully reappeared and enveloped her.  
She had vowed to never feel that feeling again but all good intentions had now vanished in the blink of an eye.  
How could he have done that to her?  
Panting the young pathologist leaned on the tabletop in front of her and fought against the rising tears.  
She was not allowed to let these thoughts in - not now.  
She had just been able to find her peace with the situation and had figured out how to deal with it.   
'Think of something else!' she heard her mind whisper.  
The ticking of the small clock on the wall - an unending echo.  
Molly tried to concentrate on it's sound.  
Tick Tock. 'Breathe in. Exhale.'  
Tick. Tock. 'Calm.'  
Tick. Tock.'Breathe in. Exhale.'  
Molly's eyes fell on the framed photograph on the wall.  
It showed her and her father walking together in the barren landscape of the Scottish Highlands.  
The photo was already older, it must have been three years already since then.  
Her last real holiday in a long time.  
It had been only a week but she had enjoyed the time with her father.  
When she thought about it she hadn't seen him much lately.  
She had last visited him in Northampton for Christmas although her parents' house was less than two hours by car from her current home.  
Meanwhile the first autumn storms swept over London and announced a cold and rainy winter.  
Molly shuddered at the thought that she had not met her father in person for almost a year and that was clearly attributable to her.   
Again and again he had phoned and invited her to visit him in the past few months.   
It had almost sounded like he would beg her when he said things like: "Come over, please, my dear and if it's only over the weekend."  
When Molly had not responded to this suggestion repeatedly he had even offered to come to London which would have been a huge sacrifice because of his poor health but Molly had dug into her work and repeatedly found another excuse for why a meeting was not possible.  
Eventually her father had given up and changed his behaviour to calling her weekly to inquire about her welfare.  
Molly knew that her father was worried about her and maybe that was just the reason that kept her away from him.  
She hated it when he was worried about her and pitied her.  
And that's exactly what James Hooper did.  
Molly had always had a very close relationship with her father.  
After the unexpected death of Molly's mother ten years ago the two had grown closer together whenever and had given each other support and strength during this difficult time.  
As an only child Molly was at the center of her father's attention and she was clearly aware of the responsibility of her role.  
He had never been able to understand her decision to study pathology but over time James Hooper had learned to accept his daughter's unusual career aspirations  
That didn't mean that he wouldn't still try to convince her to change her mind from time to time.  
By now Molly had been gotten used to endure phrases like 'child, you should work with the living, not with the dead.'.  
The retired teacher would probably have liked to see his little girl living a life similar to his own.  
Nevertheless he had always supported Molly the best he could and finally, with a heavy heart, accept the fact that his only child left Northhampton and set off to the city of London to find happiness there.

Only that she had not been able to find it there so far and that of course her father was aware of that fact.  
By now in her mid-thirties, unmarried and alone, in a job without opportunities for advancement she barely matched the image of a happy woman.  
And to be honest even if she had always tried to convince her father of her apparent satisfaction he had never really believed her - Molly was aware of that.  
The worry lines on his forehead had become progressively deeper in the last months and again and again the unspoken question was lingering in the air if it would be a solution to come back home.  
But that was exactly what Molly didn't want.  
She knew that her father was lonely and that he wanted to know her in his safe keeping but since her mother had died home was no longer the same.  
The happy mood and laughter that had always echoed through the rooms had died with her mother.  
Although her father had managed being on his own and keeping the house and garden in good shape, it was not the same as it had been before.  
The peaceful place of their happy childhood days didn't exist anymore.  
In addition she secretly felt that her father had condemned her for her decision regarding Tom.  
James Hooper had put high hopes in the young Londoner and had also been delighted with the news of their engagement.  
In his eyes Tom Molly had offered something solid, steady and the reason why Molly finally broke the engagement he hadn't been able to understand.  
Tom had almost met his expectations of a conscientious husband.  
Again and again he had tried to speak to his daughter in the conscience and with each time the anger and despair over the incomprehension of her father in Molly had grown because she secretly knew that he was right.  
Tom would have been a good match.  
He was nice, sensitive and with a not too despised financial background.  
But deep inside Molly had felt with the intuition of a woman that it was not love that held them together and that she would not be happy with Tom in the long run.  
Therefore she had decided to end what she believed had no future.  
But that was not the only reason for her decision - her father knew that as well.  
Secretly he had always known who the heart of his daughter belonged to and Molly knew that he deeply disapproved.  
James Hooper had been one of the few people who had been relieved to hear about the alleged death of the master detective hoping that he wouldn't be a threat to his daughter's well-being annymore.  
He had hoped Molly would turn to other men from that point on, which she did.  
Tom.  
It was incredibly difficult for Molly to look her father in the eye during the three years of Sherlock's absence knowing that she was withholding the truth from the whole world and especially from him   
To tell the truth - it burned her from within.  
She had never been lying to him up to this horrible day.  
When the consulting detective finally had come back into the limelight her father started to panic again even though Molly swore she was over Sherlock.  
A lie that she had told herself over and over again.  
'He will bring you disaster, Molly.' he had repeatedly asserted.  
And he had been right.

Again the young pathologist brought the cup to her mouth.  
Her delicate fingers trembled so much that the cooled brown liquid sloshed over the edge leaving clear marks on the kitchen floor's white tiles.  
Mechanically she reached for a rag that hung next to the sink and began to remove the stains.  
Her movements became more and more hectic and soon her body shook under the burden of restrained emotions.  
Instinctively Molly knew that she needed to act instantly so as not to lose her temper.  
And in her desperation she reached for something she had promised herself she would abdicate.  
Tea was not enough.  
It needed something stronger.  
With trembling fingers she took a glass from the cupboard and reached for the unopened bottle on the top shelf.  
Molly could remember the day she bought the bottle.  
This time, shortly after her decision to finally renounce alcohol.  
The bottle of red wine had been a mere precaution.  
For emergencies as this was one now.  
Hastily Molly pulled a cork opener from the drawer but then froze in the movement and her hand remained unsteady over the top of the bottle.  
She had sworn never to touch that bottle and she knew her decision could be devastating.  
But the past few weeks had consumed much of her willpower and at that moment alcohol offered her the best way out.  
Determined the young woman uncorked the bottle and let the red liquid fill the glass to below the rim.  
She quickly emptied it only to refill it afterwards.  
Already she sensed how the alcohol did it's effect and a comforting, numbing feeling filled her body.  
Her whirling thoughts found rest and smoothly Molly Hooper slid into a world far from the cruel reality.

When she opened her eyes again she thought she had been hit by a hammer on her skull.  
There was a throb behind her temples and the world around her was dull and fuzzy.  
As she tried to sit up everything in her field of vision turned on its axis and a stabbing pain forced her back into the soft pillows.  
Too fast.  
Take a deep breath.  
Slowly Molly opened her eyes again and tried hard to focus on what she could see in front of her or rather - above her.  
The wood paneled ceiling of a room.  
As a result she could combine that she was no longer in the kitchen but in the bedroom of her small apartment in South London as the ceiling in the kitchen was plastered.  
How and when she had gotten into the bedroom Molly did not know.  
With a small moan she straightened up again - this time a lot slower - and looked around.  
Her suspicions were confirmed - she was sitting on her bed.  
The curtains weren't closed but there was hardly any light coming in from outside which could only mean that it had to be the middle of the night.  
Despite the pale dimness Molly let her gaze wander across the room.  
The picture that was offered to her was pathetic.  
Pictures and books lay scattered on the floor.   
Probably due to a collision with the shelf on the wall opposite the door.  
Beside the bed lay the empty bottle of red wine surrounded by the shards that - judging by its shape - must have once been the wine glass that had been taken out of the cupboard.  
Molly's eyes turned to her right hand.  
The palm of her hand was covered with dried blood and testified that the filigree drinking vessel had apparently surrendered to the violence with which it had been held.  
With difficulty the young woman got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to clean and bandage her hand.  
As she opened the medicine cupboard a glass bowl lost its hold, falling and shattering on the floor.  
Countless tablets skipped over bathroom tiles and spread throughout the room.  
"Holy shit."  
In a flash of angry ange, Molly tore the bandages from the designated basket and placed them rudely on the edge of the sink.  
Then she began to carefully clean the encrusted wound under running water.  
The cut was not big but deep and would certainly leave an unsightly scar.   
With the practiced hands of a doctor the injury was disinfected and combined within a few minutes.  
When Molly raised her eyes she met her reflection in the mirror above the sink.  
The sight made her freeze.  
The face she looked out of the mirror was that of an old, embittered woman who had already finished with life.  
Her eyes were swollen, deep in the caves and dark shadows encircled them.  
The green pupils which had once shone happily in the sunlight had lost all it's shine.  
Her skin was ashen.  
Her brown hair which she had usually tied to a ponytail for her work in the laboratory was scraggy and looked rather shabby than well-groomed.  
There was no denying- it was not a very attractive sight.  
Quickly Molly reached for a hairbrush and frantically tried to fix her hair but even after the torture with the brush her hair still looked tangled and ugly.   
No wonder the men didn't care about her anymore.  
No wonder Sherlock Holmes had nothing left for her.  
Sherlock.  
Molly winced.  
Now she had let the thoughts about him in and opened the gates to the all-consuming despair.  
And there they came - the questions; the thoughts that tortured her so much and she could not turn them away again.  
Why had he done that?  
Did he want to finally humiliate her?  
Did he want to prove her how little her feelings towards him meant to him?  
Or even play a cruel game with her?  
Cold rage seized her and with a desperate outcry she hurled the hairbrush at her reflection.  
The mirror broke into a thousand pieces.  
Destroyed - as her life was.  
A painful sob escaped Molly's throat and she quickly slapped her hand over her mouth hoping to avoid an outburst.   
But the dam had been broken.  
The tears came and made their way down her cheeks - at first hesitantly then with full force.  
Sobbing Molly dropped to the floor and cried at last.  
In the midst of shards the young pathologist wept for her broken dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The former army doctor's eyes wandered once more to his friend.  
> Although he had a cup of tea in his hand and the newspaper on his lap John could not indulge in his Sunday ritual since he was too busy observing the world-famous dedective who was sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away stiring in an indefinable liquid with a pen....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number 3. Hope you like it and leave a comment.  
> Happy new year!

The former army doctor's eyes wandered once more to his friend.  
Although he had a cup of tea in his hand and the newspaper on his lap John could not indulge in his Sunday ritual since he was too busy observing the world-famous dedective who was sitting cross-legged on the floor a few feet away stiring in an indefinable liquid with a pen.  
It may sound strange and unimaginable but it wasn't the work itself that made the worry lines on John's forehead bigger.  
Truth be told he'd encountered Sherlock in far more bizarre actions over the past few years.  
Like this one time when he had come home after a long and exhausting day of work and found his friend lying on the floor penetrating a watermelon with a pin.  
Or the experiment in which the dog of their neighbor was let down on a rope from the window ...  
Involuntarily the doctor's mouth twitched.  
Ordinary people would probably have their problems with the detective's idiosyncrasies but he had become so used to having a life with severed body parts in the freezer and the daily stench of toxic substances lingering in the air.   
Just a normal kind of life, right?  
Sherlock had become an integral part of John's life - more and more like a family member over the past few months when the doctor was struggling with the grief and loss of a loved one.  
But just because John Sherlock were so close now he could instinctively feel how bad his friend was doing at the moment.  
Almost a week had passed since that "incident" with Eurus and slowly but steadily life had returned to normal - if you could call it this way.  
But though Sherlock and John were back in 221B Baker Street the detective still didn't seem to have found his way back.   
Since their return he had been seeming absent, more than he used to do, and had been escaping to his mind palace for hours .  
Usually this contributed his thinking and gave him some satisfaction.  
But John did not have the impression that it worked as usually.  
It seemed that the dark-haired man was getting more and more agitated and frustrated.  
There had been moments in the last few days when he obvisley had no longer been able to sit still and to bear the confines of the walls anymore because more than once the detective had suddenly jumped up and disappeared without a word of farewell only to return after a few hours - even late at night - coming back with disheveled hair and deep shadows beneath his eyes, falling into his chair and staring at the wall with folded hands.  
To address him in such a state proved pointless since Sherlock mostly did not even notice his interlocutor.

John sighed softly.  
Even though his friend could not be elicited a single word the young father was clearly aware of what burned Sherlock's soul.  
The events of the past had left their mark and even the proud Sherlock Holmes who had always remained true to his motto that emotions are only a hindrance could no longer resist them.  
Painfully and with brute sway he had been forced by his sister to face what he had been trying to avoid all his life.  
Emotions.  
Sherlock had often described himself as a highly functional sociopath and although John was not a psychologist he knew that his friend had features of such a personality.  
For Sherlock it would always be difficult to build relationships with other people.  
Outwardly he conveyed the feeling that he didn't care what others thought of him and what happened in their lives.  
But John knew his friend and flatmate long enough to look behind the detective's rigid facade.  
He deep down knew that Sherlock though he never ever would admit it - not to himself and surely not to anyone else - suffered inwardly if people called him hardhearted, cold and lacking in empathy.   
The doctor was aware that Sherlock was struggling to classify and understand people's emotions.  
But even though one could find numerous negative qualities in the extraordinary man with the wild dark curls there was definitely one outstanding good feature:   
Sherlock was unconditionally loyal to his friends and if he had the feeling that one of them was threatened he could metaphorically turn into an animal as John himself had experienced more than once.  
Sherlock's ambition was to shield the people close to him from emotionally and physically pain.  
And that was exactly what he had failed to do with Molly Hooper.  
Rather it had just been him who had caused the suffering.  
Several times John had already tried to convince his friend that he should go to Molly and explain the situation to her.  
"Our Molly is smart, Sherlock.  
She will understand and realize that it had been necessary for you to act this way.  
All you have to do is to ask her forgiveness as you have already done! "  
Sherlock had not responded to his request however.  
For some incomprehensible reason the dedective turned away every time the topic came up and stopped communicating so the former army doctor had finally given up.  
Although John knew how hard it was for Sherlock to admit a mistake and apologize his friend's behavior surprised him because secretly John knew exactly how much Molly meant to his friend.  
For years now she had been an excellent pathologist in the eyes of the detective.  
She had spared no effort to help him with one of his cases.  
But in the past few months the relationship between the two had changed.   
Strangers had become friends over time.  
It hadn't escaped John that Molly had had a crush on Sherlock from the start and that she quietly and patiently had fullfilled every quest he had asked her for, silently hoping that he would fall for her as well.  
But this wish would always stay unfulfilled which was clearly visible to John but not to poor Molly.  
All this time the doctor had secretly prayed that this innocent, kind-hearted girl would find a man who would make her happy and distract her from her crush on this hopeless case called Sherlock Holmes.  
His prayer had been answered in the form of Tom.  
Lawyer, well-paid, friendly and courteous - actually the perfect match for Molly.  
But for some unknown reason the relationship had ended only months before their marriage and John had been under the impression that Sherlock had in some way not been too sad about that.  
At this time John had suspected a hint of gloating behind that but now he wasn't so sure anymore.  
Something about Sherlock's behavior had changed since this fateful phone call to Molly.  
His normally confident and dominant demeanor suddenly seemed unreal and faked.  
Could it be possible that Molly's words had moved him, that perhaps there could be hidden more beneath the surface than any of them, including Eurus, had dared to suspect?   
Whatever - it could not stay the way it was now.  
Something had to happen now and there was no more delay.

With a quick movement John placed the newspaper on the coffee table to his right and got up.  
In a few steps he was at the door and slipped into his dark gray, worn jacket.  
He picked up Sherlock's black trench coat and held it out to his friend.  
"Get up and come."  
His words sounded -not like his esually self - harsh, cold, and like a command.  
The good old military tone.  
The former army doctor was surprised how well he was still using it.  
"We will go now!"  
The dedective on the floor however did not even look up but continued to stir unimpressed in the brownish broth.  
"I'll say it only once, Sherlock.  
Get up and join me. "  
"Where to?"  
Sherlock's voice had a casual sound but John considered it essential that he even got an answer.  
"You know that very well.  
The morgue. "  
When the detective showed no sign of responding John took another step towards him and started his last attempt to persuade the friend to join him.  
"Sherlock, it's not all about me here.  
She'll want to see you.  
I'm not going to plead you, Sherlock, but I'll call on you once more: accompany me.   
Be a man and face this challenge. "  
John knew he had gone too far with the last sentence but it was worth trying to provoke the detective by offending his honor.  
An attempt that seemed to be unsuccessful because Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders slightly and returned to his experiment.  
"You're just an incorrigible ..."  
John bit back the rest of the sentence and turned to leave.  
On the way out he knocked briefly on Mrs. Hudson's door to ask her to keep an eye out for Rosie in case the little girl would wake up in the next two hours.  
He had to wait only a few minutes in the street to hail one of London's famous black cabs.  
Just as John had opened the door a tall figure in a black trenchcoat pushed past him and got in.  
Impatiently Sherlock Holmes watched his friend standing on the curb from inside the cab.  
"What's wrong with you?  
What are you waiting for, John? "


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he time passed silent.  
> The two men were looking out of the window, lost in thought, following the hustle and bustle on the streets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter number 4.  
> Please leave a comment. :)

The time passed silent.  
The two men were looking out of the window, lost in thought, following the hustle and bustle on the streets of London.  
It would not have made much sense to speak because John was sure that if he now asked Sherlock what the reason behind his change of mind was the detective would probably flee back to the hole where he had been hiding in the past few days.  
It would have even been possible that he would have jumped right out of the moving car immediately just to escape the conversation.  
The weather in the capital of England was cloudy and cold as usually for this season.  
It had rained a lot in the past few days and numerous puddles lined the roadsides.  
The people who were hurrying along the sidewalks had wrapped themselves in thick jackets or held protective umbrellas over their heads though the locks of the sky had not opened yet .  
For most of them out there it was a day like any other, with no major incidents.  
A day that wouldn't be kept in mind for long.  
That's the way it is:  
You live your life without looking left or right and without valueing the banalities of everyday life - until the moment you learn that everything can change forever within a second.  
For Sherlock and John nothing would ever be the same.  
Just like a chapter ends even though you don't like the ending.  
You don't know what the new chapter is going to bring -it's like a new begining.   
For John, there would always be a chapter before Mary's death and after .  
For Sherlock a time with and without his sister.  
That sister whose existence had become his curse.

As the black vehicle rolled into the parking lot of St. Bart's Hospital Sherlock didn't even wait for the car to stop before he opend the door.  
The detective crossed the lobby in big steps and John struggled to keep up with his long-legged friend.  
The nurses and doctors they met on their way down to the morgue avoided their gaze or even turned away as soon as they saw the Consulting Detective and his partner approaching.  
Sherlock was as little appreciated here as he was at the London Police Department.  
Besinde his arrogant and disparaging behaviour, Sherlock used to show up at the most unpleasent times calling of nurses and honored doctors as "uneducated buffoons."  
His bad reputation preceded him.  
More than once John had urged his friend to show more kindness and courtesy to the people who were always trying to please him but he hadn't earned more than an irritated moan from his friend.

But it didn't matter anyway - because of the speed in which the dedective was moving forward it would have been impossible to engage in conversations with the passing people or just toss them a greeting anyway.  
Their brisk march was only interrupted when Sherlock abruptly stopped in front of the glass door of the morgue - what made John collide with his back.  
"What the - Sherlock ..? "  
When the doctor took a look inside he as well was taken aback.  
In the middle of the room a young man in sterile clothes was standing at the big metal table where Molly Hooper normally used to work with utmost precision.  
Bent low over a microscope he seemed to be engrossed in some tissue samples.  
When the laboratory door behind them quietly fell shut the three men flinched and the lab assistant became aware of his uninvited guests.  
His eyes flashed in surprise behind his thick glasses.  
For a moment he stared helplessly at his counterparts then his eyes widened.  
It was obvious that he recognized the world-famous detective and was deeply intimidated by his presence.  
A scalpel fell to the ground clinking as he wiped his trembling hands at lab coat and walked closer to greet John and Sherlock.  
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir, what a great honor to finally meet you in person.  
Harald .... Harald Jefferson - that's your name.   
Wait,no, that's my name of course. Stupid me.  
Radiologist.  
Stop, no, pathologist. "  
Harald Jefferson laughed nervously and his words sounded more like the stammering of an excited child.  
John did not have to look aside to know that Sherlock already loathed this man.  
At least he did not accept the offered hand.  
Instead he straightened up to his full size barely noticeable and as he started to speak his voice had - though barely possible - taken on an even icier sound than usual.  
And then the dedective asked the question that had also crossed the mind of the doctor from the moment they had entered the morgue.  
"Where is Molly Hooper?"  
Instantly the pathologist's euphoric smile gave way to a serious expression.  
"My predecessor?"  
He scratched his head and looked around the lab thoughtfully.  
"I do not know unfortunately.  
Nobody told me anything about it in the staff department.  
She submitted her dismissal very spontaneously - that is all I know.  
Must have been quite a cloak and dagger operation.  
At any rate - her superiors were not very keen to look for a new, capable pathologist in the middle of the year. "  
Apparently embarrassed by the rejected greeting gesture Harald Jefferson turned away and picked up the scalpel from the floor.  
"But I have to admit she left me a real palace here."  
His gaze wandered over the neatly sorted and cleaned cabinets and utensils.  
Almost tenderly he looked at the four walls into which the bodies of murderers or accident victims were taken every day.  
A macabre place to feel happy, John thought.  
The former military doctor would have liked to say a few friendly words to the obvious newcomer to the job who, as successor to Molly Hooper, would not have an easy start here for sure but his friend did not give him a chance to.  
Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel and walked back the dark hallway toward the main staircase wordlessly.  
John tried his best to follow him as fast as possible.  
The dark blond man only managed to throw a fleeting "Welcome!" into the room before the glass doors fell shut behind them again.

The staff department of the hospital was on the second floor.  
The little, elderly lady sitting at a desk didn't really seem motivated to do her job.  
Reading an article in a fashion magazine she barely registered the entry of the two gentlemen.  
Normally, such a behaviour got on Sherlock's nerves but in this situation it made him furious.  
Not waiting for eye contact he asked - or rather barked - the question once more that the helpless pathologist hadn't been able to answer them.  
"Molly Hooper, where is she?"  
Obviously irritated by the violence of his words the lady looked up from her magazine and regarded the detective with raised eyebrows.  
"Mr. Holmes."  
Judging from her voice it was perfectly clear that she had previously had unpleasant experiences with the Consulting Detective and felt no desire to deal with him right now.  
"Miss Molly Hooper has terminated her employment with us."  
"We already know that."  
John could almost feel his friend struggling for his mastery.  
"We are here to find out why she should have done that.  
And where is she now ?! "  
Mrs. Cricket, as the name tag on her blouse said, sighed softly.  
"Such information is a matter of privacy and confidentiality, Mr. Holmes."  
Although that was an anticipated answer John now felt the frustration slowly taking over him as well but he was well aware that there would be little point in persuading Mrs. Cricket to give up any further information anyway.  
The detective seemed to have come to this conclusion too for he turned away without a word of farewell and left the room.  
This time his partner was at his side in a second.  
Sherlock Holmes did not pause for a moment moving purposefully toward the exit.  
Once again John could hardly keep up with him.  
"Sherlock, wait!  
Where will we go now?"  
The detective stopped again so abruptly that his friend almost collided with him once more and spun around.  
His eyes sparkled and there was something unfathomable written in them that John had never seen before.  
"Do not be ridiculous, John!  
We'll drive to her flat. "  
When the Consulting detective turned to leave he added quietly:  
"Something has happened."  
And by God - John wished he could have said something els, but that feeling gnawed at him as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The area where Molly Hopper lived one could consider as a stereotype of London.  
> Streets of endless rows of small, brickstoned terraced houses with white window frames and colourful doorways....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter number 5.  
> Please leave a comment :)

The area where Molly Hopper lived one could consider as a stereotype of London.  
Streets of endless rows of small, brickstoned terraced houses with white window frames and colourful doorways.  
Living here wasn't as expensive as in over parts of London but still not the cheapest.  
Way too expensive for families which was probably the reason why there were no children to be seen.  
This was the kind of area where young well paid singles would move to until they found what they were searching for.  
A place where Molly Hooper actually didn't fit anymore, John thought.  
Still, this area had a peaceful and cosy atmosphere.  
Even though the houses looked quite similar from the outside you could easily tell the owners who cared about their homes from those who didin't.  
It was obvious that Molly Hooper loved her home.   
Even though the the small flat in the house was only rented she seemed to care for it as if it was her own.  
The window boxes on the windowsills were in impeccable condition testifying to the dedication with which her owner strove for them.  
Although the beginning of autumn had already taken its toll coming along with heavy downpours the plants had not yet completely lost their flowers.  
It made John smile.  
As in all other parts of her life Molly Hooper was always fixated on the wellbeing of others judging by the sight of her plants.  
John was almost certain that she was one of those persons who took her time individually for each plant and talked to every single one of them as well.  
A behavior that Sherlock probably would have abhorr and declare ridiculous.  
One of the bad qualities of the detective.  
For the secret passions as well as "corners and edges" of people he had never been appreciative of.  
He himself was anything but ordinary but mostly it were especially those people who couldn't cope with the percularities of others.  
John sighed softly.  
He had stopped trying to teach his friend this lesson.  
He wouldn't listen after all - it just wasn't worth the effort.  
Stubborn, almost dogged, the detective insisted on his opinion and counter-arguments rebounded on his rugged facade apparently ineffective.

They had almost reached the red front door with the brass-colored number 22 on it when the usually purposeful detective suddenly stopped.  
For the third time that day John almost stumbled into him.  
"Damn, Sherlock, could you just announce for once when you stop? I feel like an absolute jerk if you .."  
However, when the look of the former army doctor fell on Sherlock's face he paused.  
The detective's features showed an emotion that the doctor rarely would find there.  
Fear.  
It was clearly written in the detective's eyes.  
"Sherlock?"   
John started to talk in a soft tone but his friend didn't seem to notice him anymore.  
Tight-jawed the dark-haired man stared at the door as if he wanted to burn a hole in it.  
Only when John gently grabbed his arm Sherlock flinched and became aware of his partner's presence.  
His eyes moved restlessly over to John making eye contact.  
At this moment he seemed as vulnerable as a small child.  
An extremely rare sight.  
John just wanted to comfort his friend and talk to him when the moment of the detective's weakness was already over.  
He straightened his shoulders and grabbed for the heavy door knocker.  
The blows soon died away but there was no movement behind the closed front door.  
Sherlock struck the iron grip again but there was still no sign of life within the walls.  
John shrugged helplessly.  
"She will probably be on the road.  
Maybe shopping for groceries, visiting a girlfriend or enjoying their newfound freedom. "  
He turned to go.  
"Don't be ridiculous, John, Molly Hooper has no friends."  
This statement sounded like a confirmed fact and John Watson could only shake his head wearily once more over the insensitive diction of his friend.  
Maybe it was better that Molly wasn't at home.  
In his awkward manner the detective would have probably verbally got on the wrong side of her.  
Even though -still sad to say - John was not surprised at such a comment by the detective it still made him angry.  
"How can you say something like that out loud, Sherlock?  
Our Molly is the kindest person I know and I'm sure many other people are thinking the same way about her! "  
The Consulting Detective turned his head slightly and looked at his little companion with a mocking smile on his lips.  
John groaned inwardly because without his friend saying a word he already knew that he had just triggered a plea by disagreeing with the detective.  
"You wonder how I can I say such a thing, my dear John?  
Well, let's take a look at the facts.  
Molly Hooper is in her mid-thirties, unmarried, with no children or a husband.  
She lives alone with a tomcat which apparently represents her greatest purpose in life judging by the fact that this animal is visible on both the desktop wallpaper of her Laptop as well as the wallpaper on her mobile phone.  
She works in morgue as a pathologist, a profession that isn't attractive to other people.  
The ignorant public would probably even declare it as "disgusting" and "repulsive".  
In her spare time she mostly stays at home and is involved in activities such as growing weeds."  
Sherlock gestured disdainfully to a planter in which various herbs had been lined neatly side by side.  
"Furthermore she doesn't go on dates and doen't meet with so-called" girlfriends " as a glance in her personal diary shows.  
You see, it's unlikely that Molly Hooper is having tea with friends right now. "  
By now John was close to rant outraged.  
How the hell could Sherlock possibly knew what was in Molly Hooper's personal calendar and how on earth he had gained access to it?  
Just when he opened his mouth to voice his indignation to his friend the two men were interrupted by the sound of a crash from inside the house.  
Something about the noise was blood freezing.  
Even the unemotional detective seemed changed from one second to the other .  
Completely tensed he began to jolt at the doorknob uneasily.  
"Molly, Molly, are you in there?"  
John's call went unanswered.  
"Maybe we should call the police?" he suggested helplessly but his friend had already started walking along the wall of the house.  
"That is nonsense, John, until the jokes of Scotland Yard would show up here we could also ask the easter bunny to open the door for us."  
John ignored the sarcastic statement.  
Unlike Sherlock he had not yet lost faith in the men of law and order.  
A few meters further on they reached a low-lying window.  
Looking into the apartment through the curtains turned out to be impossible.  
"Sherlock, we really should ..."  
With a loud crash the glas burst into a thousand shards.  
Before John could even react Sherlock had already removed his trench coat from his shoulders, wrapped it around his hand and smashed the glass with a precise punch.  
Startled the doctor stared at his friend.  
They could only hope that no one had been seeing them in the act.  
Even though the Consulting Detective had become known beyond the country's borders and enjoyed a certain celebrity status it didn't mean that the country's laws didn't apply to him, too.  
And trespassing as well as property damage would probably not look very well - neither on Johns nor on Sherlock's CV.  
But to tell the whole truth:  
John was secretly almost glad that Sherlock had taken this step since he himself had already been thinking about doing exact the same.  
The detective didn't hesitate one more moment.  
With one swift movement he got access to the home of the pathologist and John followed him without contradiction.

The kitchen they were now standing in looked orphaned.  
Lonely and abandoned stood a cup of cold tea as well as a chopping board and a sliced lemon on the wide counter.  
In the past few hours nobody seemed to have worked here anymore.  
John did not have to be a detective to realize it wasn't a 'Molly-Hooper-thing-to-do' to leave the kitchen untidied.  
Sherlock seemed to had come to the same conclusion.  
Frowning the detective stepped into the adjoining living room which gave a similar impression like the kitchen before.  
On the small coffee table were three emptied bottles whose label said they had once been filled with red wine.  
The blankets and pillows were scattered and had obviously been thrown aside carelessly.  
Countless crumpled handkerchiefs were spread on the table and on floor all around.  
Everything pointed to a night full of sadness and despair of a broken woman.   
"Oh, Molly ..."  
John's eyes filled with tears.  
How bad poor Molly must have been feeling in those hours!  
And she had been here, completely alone with her pain.  
At that moment the doctor hated himself for not having gone to her instantaneously and comforting her.  
Maybe it had not been a good idea to pass some time.  
His friend seemed to be tormented by similar thoughts for Sherlock turned quickly and stepped out into the hallway toward the bedroom.  
John knew that the Consulting Detective could no longer bear the sight and guilt that it caused.  
He himself lingered for a moment.  
He realized a thick candle lying on the floor next to a large cupboard.  
On the top shelf Tobby, Molly's tomcat, was standing with a twitching tail watching the uninvited guests.  
In John's mind the pieces of the puzzle were fit together.  
The animal must have jumped on the cupboard and pushed down the candle which explained the sound of the crash.  
John was almost relieved and if the situation hadn't been so severe he probably would have laughed out loud.  
"Sherlock, it's all right."  
Hurriedly he followed his friend into the hallway.  
"It was the tomcat, Sherlock, Molly is fine."

And this was the fourth and final time on that day that John collided with Sherlock's back.  
The detective had stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the narrow corridor.  
A quick glance past his friend told John the reason why and it made the blood freeze in his veins.  
The door to the bathroom was open an inch revealing a terrible view.  
The floor was covered with sharp shards that once must have belonged to a mirror.  
Blood had stained the tiles red.  
Fresh blood.  
The blood of a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While working as an army doctor John had seen many injuries and terrible fates.  
> Almost every day he had had to face the extent of human destructiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter number 6.  
> Please leave a comment :)

While working as an army doctor John had seen many injuries and terrible fates.  
Almost every day he had had to face the extent of human destructiveness.   
Of course he had developed a certain emotional distance over time which prevented him from easily panicking.  
But despite his professional attitude as a doctor it had always been a challenge if he had been called to a mission.  
The worst was the uncertainty - not knowing what awaited him or what extent of injury he had to treat.  
Frequently little information could be given about the condition of the patient before his arrival.  
It was usually up to him to get a picture of the situation and to act intuitively.  
This part of his work was essential to the former army doctor:  
As soon as he had been able to act all unrest and nervousness had fallen away from him and he had become the pro of his craft that he was.  
Of course it had always been particularly challenging if it had been a familiar face who needed to be treated.  
It had taken a huge effort of John Watson to put the personal connection into the background.   
In addition to the insecurity it was the fear of lossing someone emotionally close to him that had often blocked his thinking in such situations.  
Emotional context.  
One of the few points of Sherlock's incomprehensible attitudes that John could share with the detective.  
Instead of acting swiftly and appropriately he had sometimes been stunned when the blood of an esteemed comrade had soaked the dusty ground and mostly it was up to the physician if the wounded would return home walking or in a coffin.   
John hated that sense of powerlessness that came over him if facing a friend in mortal danger.

Moments like this one.  
The thoughts of the army doctor overturned and he automatically began to analyze the situation and the potential chances of survival of the victim inwardly .

Blood loss:  
Based on the amount of splintered pieces on the ground probably significant blood loss.  
It can be assumed that the victim has lost several liters of blood in the last few hours.

Time of the incident:  
Unknown.  
It could have happened recently or even last night.  
The latter would be devastating.  
Whereby the blood seems to have dried up in some places.  
Not good - the incident seems to be at least an hour behind.  
Too much time!

Probable output:  
Chance of survival -low, not likely....

John shuddered and told his inner voices to stop crying wolf.  
'Stop it, John! Do not think of the worst scenario! '  
The sight caused nausea and the doctor knew at that moment that he had to regain his temper at any cost otherwise he would probably vomit on the floor.  
He straightened his shoulders and tried to regain the control over his breathing.  
A panic attack wouldn't help anyone - least of all the victim.  
That in this case the victim was called Molly Hooper made John's eyes water.   
That could, that just should not be!  
Not their Molly - the sweetest, most kind-hearted person John Watson knew.  
'Please, God, if you exist, please don't let it be the end!'  
John Watson had never been a religious person, especially after being confronted with the horrors of war and the depths of humanity, but now, at that moment, he sent a desperate prayer to Heaven for the sake of a beloved friend.  
John's gaze wandered over to his friend who stood motionless beside him, his gaze also fixedly fixed on the terrible traces of violence.  
At first glance the detective just seemed to be focused and thoughtful but John knew his partner long enough to see behind the facade of composure.  
Considering this the Consulting Dedective looked awful.  
The vein on his neck was clearly visible and throbbing, cold sweat was standing on his forehead and his jaws was so tightly clenched that watching alone caused pain.  
But worst of all were the dark-haired man's eyes.  
The otherwise fiery and focused sparkle had vanished giving way to an empty almost lifeless expression.  
John knew from one to the other second that Sherlock would not have the strength to enter the crime scene first.  
He would not be able to do it even if he wanted to.  
And yet this step had to be taken - better now than later.  
Despite the panic rising in his soul like the roaring sea John Watson began to move forward.

Even though it was completely unnecessary to be quiet he still carefully groped his way along the wall closer to the bathroom door as if there was a dangerous predator behind it just waiting to pounce on his prey.  
As his fingers reached the smooth wood of the doorframe the doctor paused once more glancing over his shoulder.  
Sherlock still hadn't moved an inch.  
He just stared past John completely motionless.  
It was futile to wait any longer.  
The former army doctor took a deep breath one last time then slowly pushed open the bathroom door.

The image that presented itself surpassed his worst imaginations.  
The floor was covered by shards of the broken mirror over the sink and another clay pot.  
It gave the impression that someone had struck the glass with blind anger or desperation.  
The fragments were distributed to the last corners of the small room.  
On the floor right in front of the sink was a large pool of blood that had spread across the bathroom as the blood had been flowing along the gaps between the floor tiles.  
The medicine cabinet was torn open and everywhere in the bathroom were tablets of various shape, color and size distributed.  
Which tablets might Molly have taken?  
What terrible effect could they have caused?  
John's lips quivered as his gaze picked up on all the awful details and finally caught on the bathtub.  
The army doctor went weak at the knees and he had to rest on the door frame for a moment.  
The long shower curtain that surrounded the bathtub was drawn together so the view was blocked and you could only vaguely tell what was hidden behind it.  
But the bloody splashes and handprints on the inside of the curtain spoke a clear language.  
That the bathtub was full to the brim could be seen as well as the motionless human silhouette floating in the water.  
"No..."  
John winced.  
Silently the detective had entered the bathroom behind him  
The words came almost tonelessly over his lips.   
John swallowed hard.  
The doctor could no longer hold back his tears and a desperate sob escaped his throat.  
They had come too late.  
He should have been here earlier, he should not have waited for his wayward friend to come to terms with what he had destroyed.  
This time it was Sherlock who started moving first.  
With a few quick steps he was next to the bathtub.  
He carelessly stepped over the traces of the act.  
Bloody shards were scrunching beneath his feet.  
Destruction of Evidence - a behavior that the Consulting Detective would have harshly condemned under normal circumstances.  
Now it seemed completely indifferent to him.  
His long wiry fingers gripped the hem of the curtain.  
John could clearly see that his friend's hands were shaking.  
With a quick movement the detective pulled back the wall of plastic.  
The rings used for attachment clattered against each other.  
A menacing noise like the warning sound a rattlesnake produces only moments before it attacks, John unconsciously noted.

The curtain revealed a picture of horror.  
A sight that took both men's breath away and was as well cruel as liberating.  
The water that filled the bathtub to the brim had been colored red by the blood.  
There were bloody fingerprints on the edge of the bathtub and faucet handles.  
It was obvious that the delicate blood-covered fingers of the petite woman had slid along the wall.  
Like scars the bloody lines were emphasised on the white tiles.  
On the water surface floated a blood-soaked bathrobe.  
Carried by the light movement of the water it looked like a human body lying lifeless in the water.  
John gasped.  
The bathtub was empty.  
Molly was not here.  
A wave of relief flooded his body.  
This realization now seemed to reach Sherlock's subconscious as well.  
The detective's knees began to shake uncontrollably his lips quivering.  
The next moment the dark-haired man's legs gave way and he sank to the floor his hands resting against the edge of the bathtub.  
Any color had left his face.  
"She is not here, Sherlock! The bathtub ... she is not ... "  
John wasn't capabel to form more than incomplete phrases right now.  
The shock was overwhelming him.

A sudden thought brought the fear back to John's soul.  
The bedroom.  
They hadn't looked into Molly's bedroom so far.  
Unthinkable what was waiting for them there.  
This time the doctor did not hesitate for a moment.  
The relief had given him hope and courage.  
He was not allowed to linger or the deafening numbness would take possession of him once again.  
"I'll check if she's in another room."  
Without waiting for an answer John stumbled backwards out of the bath and headed toward the white door of the bedroom his heart pounding.  
He didn't have to come closer than a meter to the door to see the bloody marks on the doorknob.  
The former army doctor's breathing stopped for a second and again he pleaded to an unkown god that he wouldn't find what he expected.  
Slowly John opened the door and winced as it banged against something beyond it.  
Something heavy, motionless blocked the door from inside.  
'No, I'm just imagining that ....'  
John swallowed hard.  
The view had to be risked.  
Reluctantly John pushed his way through the narrow gap between the door and the door frame and looked nervously around the room.   
Once again a surge of relief swept through his body as he saw that the object behind the door was just a big suitcase.  
Molly's bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was not close to the picture the doctor had of the young pathologist.  
There were clothes scattered throughout the room. ,  
The wardrobe was open and gave the impression as if someone had hurriedly pulled out some pieces.  
Molly was nowhere to be seen.  
John did not know if he should be relieved or disappointed - he didn't even know what he had expected to find.  
Next to the bed was lying another empty bottle of red wine.  
The doctor sighed and reached for the glass jar.  
"Oh, Molly ..."  
Here, too, shards stained the ground.  
Considering the shape it could only be a broken wine glass.  
"Molly, where are you?"  
With the bottle in hand John left the bedroom and went back into Molly's bath.  
Sherlock was still sitting in the same place his head resting on the edge of the bathtub.  
"Molly is not in her bedroom as well.  
It looks pretty messy.  
Sweaters, pants, clothes - everything spread out on the floor and ... Sherlock ?? "  
Only now did the former army doctor realize that his friend's shoulders were twitching.  
The detective did not respond immediately when he was approached.  
"Sherlock?"  
Uncertain John took a step toward his friend but paused instantly as the detective raised his head and looked directly at him.  
John shuddered.  
He had never seen Sherlock in such a terrible state.  
The eyes of the usually so composed and calculating man were reddened, the tears ran down his cheeks.  
His otherwise so hard lips trembled and his breathing was jerky and uncontrolled.  
The long fingers clawed the edge of the bathtub as if it were the last anchor that could save him from drowning.  
For the first time in an eternity Sherlock Holmes had lost his temper and was unable to calm himself.  
"John, Molly, she ... How can that be, I ... We ... Oh, God, John."  
The usually sharp-tongued detective didn't even manage to form a clear sentence.  
John saw the honest desperation in his friend's eyes.  
Sherlock had hurt many people over the years with his unsensitive and cold manner, not seldom leaving a trail of emotional destruction but apparently he had never been aware of that.  
And John Watson, standing there in the middle of Molly Hooper's bathroom motionless with the empty bottle of red wine in his hand, suddenly understood.  
Sherlock Holmes, sitting here between shards and the blood of a loved one, had finally become aware of the irreparable damage he had caused and realized what that could mean to Molly.  
"Oh John, what have I done?"  
The detective buried his face in his hands and began sobbing unrestrainedly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big SLR camera caused a flurry of flashlights in the dark rooms......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter.  
> Please leave a comment :)  
> And tell me - how bad is my english? :D

The big SLR camera caused a flurry of flashlights in the dark rooms.  
The photographer - apparently a highly experienced police officer from Scotland Yard - seemed to take a picture every inch of the small apartment, presumably to get as many details in front of the lens as possible.  
Marked by their friendship and solving of crime cases together John knew only too well how essential an experienced eye was for capturing inconspicuous clues.  
At any rate the policeman seemed to master his craft perfectly.  
A much younger looking civil servant - whose training could barely date less than two years back- followed him at every turn, jotting down everything on a notepad what his colleague was mumbeling to himself as he was taking photo after photo.  
It was hard to say how many employees of London's most prominent police department were currently working in Molly's apartment.  
There was a murmur of voices lingering in the air and John could not help but notice the tensed mood.  
The former army doctor knew this atmosphere, he had experienced it several times.  
Only that he usually was in the position of those whose job it was to commit the crime scene.  
This unmistakable highly concentrated tension that allowed no failure, no mistakes and no hesitation.   
Everyone here did nothing but his or her work, every action aimed to get the job done in as short a time as possible and return to the police station.  
The expression on everyone's face was serious.  
Everyone was aware of the tragedy of the situation and paid due respect to the victim through his or her behavior.  
Only that in this case there was no victim to be found.  
Not yet.

With trembling fingers the former army doctor brought the glass to his mouth and sipped his cognac.  
The alcohol burned in his throat but at that moment John Watson needed something stronger, so that was why he had thankfully refused the tea he half-heartedly had been offered by a young policewoman, and had served himself a glass of the brandy from Molly's pantry.  
For such a delicate woman Molly had a rather masculine taste for alcohol.  
John had been in a trance-like state for the past two hours.  
Too unreal seemed to be the whole situation- a wicked prank of fate disguised as a nightmare.  
Their arrival in front of Molly's apartment, the terrible discovery on the inside and finally the terrified detective sitting on the floor wheeping.  
Rarely had the doctor felt as helpless as the moment he stood there in Molly's bathroom between shards and blood, at his feet his best friend, whose pain he was unable to relieve.  
How to comfort someone like Sherlock Holmes?  
Nobody ever had to face this challenge before.  
Sherlock Holmes had always kept his emotions together - losing his face had always been his worst fear and the biggest taboo for the proud man.  
John had rarely seen his friend emotionally compressed and even then it had only been a brief moment requiring no response.  
But now that strong detective had been huddled and had lost his composure.  
John had had no idea how to react.  
Instinctively he had not come closer to Sherlock but had simply stood still and waited for the low tide to set in again after the flood of emotions.  
John couldn't say for sure anymore but it had taken Sherlock a long time to finally rise, shake the broken shards of his trench coat and follow John into the living room.  
There he had sat down in the armchair in the corner, folded his hands against his lips, as he often used to do when he was thinking, and had begun to stare absently into the distance.  
And that he was still doing.  
Since then he hadn't moved an inch nor did he have seemed to notice the arrival of the Scotland Yard police so far.  
He had not responded to any questions after all and no one dared to touch him in order to get him out of his Mind Palace, not even John, who was by now almost as concerned about his friend's well-being as about Molly Hooper's.

It had been John who had finally called Scotland Yard about one hour ago.  
He realized that no matter what had happened here it was time now to turn to the police because at that moment neither he nor his brilliant friend was able to think straight and John knew something had to be done right now.  
In addition a violent crime with foreign influence could not be excluded despite the clear signs.  
After John had specifically requested to speak Greg Lestrade in person and had described the situation to him in a few sentences it had taken rarely more than ten minutes for the heavy steps of the Scotland Yard inspector to be heard outside the door.  
The longtime policeman had been appalled at the sight of the apartment as well.  
He had also been knowing and appreciating the docile pathologist for years and seemed no less concerned than John was.  
While his colleagues had quickly begun to inspect the crime scene he had initially dropped himself on the couch beside John stunned shaking his head and repeatedly murmuring "What the hell....".  
This hadn't changed until Anderson, armed with unfriendly and insulting comments as usual, had stepped in that Lestrade had risen and started conducting the investigation.  
Anderson's condescending nagging - directed mainly at John and the motionless Sherlock - had not stoped until the lanky police officer had entered the bathroom.  
This scene of horror even seemed to shock him.  
Neither he nor Sergant Donovan who had arrived a short time later had been adressing a provocative word to the Consulting Detective since then.  
It was probably better this way because even though Sherlock was looking more like a wax figure than a living human right now John was not sure how much mobbing his pride could endure.

 

One hour earlier, Scotland Yard:

Inspector Lestrade was leaning low over his desk and read for the umpteenth time the pathological report of a case file.  
For hours he had dealt with this unresolved case, which offered nothing but riddles to anyone on the station.  
But no matter how he looked at it - the ignited spark didn't want to skip.  
Eventually the experienced policeman leaned back in his chair and moaned irritated rubbing his face with his hand.  
There was no denying that he had once again reached the point where he willy-nilly had to turn to the world-famous detective from Bakerstreet.  
Even though Sherlock Holmes's involvement was a sure success Greg Lestrade still saw this step as his last fill-in.  
While observing Sherlock at work was intriguing and instructive it was humiliating and extremely exhausting at the same time.  
The eccentric man didn't mince his words and often expressed his displeasure at the inability of the London police loudly.  
No one at Scotland Yard really liked him and admittedly it was not easy to appreciate Sherlock for his nature.  
Over the years Greg Lestrade had learned to cope with the harsh and insensitive behaviour of the detective but that did not mean that it didn't cause him a headache whenever he had to pick up the phone and contact the Consulting Detective.  
The inspector sighed.  
He once again had no choice other choice.  
If he wanted the case done before the end of this month - and he really should - it was better to call Sherlock sooner rather than later.  
A quick press of the redial button - unnecessary to explain that the detective was at the top of the stored contacts - and a steady beeping announced the telephone line.  
It was not unusual for the detective to let any caller wait.  
His time was too precious to him and not infrequently he was so deeply lost in his thoughts that the ringing didn't reach his subconsciousness even if the phone was laying right next to him.  
'Damn egoist!'  
Just as Greg Lestrade irritated wanted to hang up, a breathless voice of an elderly lady answered the call.  
Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady, without any doubt.  
Despite her age and her maternal appearance the sharp-tongued undertone was unmistakable in her voice.  
She was a cunning person even though no one would have thought so and Lestrade knew far too well that she was not an easy woman to deal with if you dared to mess with her or someone close to her.  
Someone like Sherlock had become to her over the years.  
Courtesy was the best defense in terms of talking to her as Greg Lestrad knew by now.   
And of course one should under no circumstances disclose details regarding the case for the older lady was excellently able to elicit information from the unsuspecting police officers of Scotland Yard unnoticed and casual.  
"Mrs. Hudson, nice to talk to you. How are you?"  
The inspector praised himself inwardly for his innocuous and ice-breaking conversation start but he had failed to reckon with the life-experienced woman.  
With her feminine intuition she immediately saw through his chatty tone.  
Without further ado she got to the point.  
"Sherlock is not there.  
He left with John on a cab about two hours ago.  
Is there another murder case to solve that makes you missung the forest through the trees? "  
Greg Lestrade crunched his teeth imperceptibly.  
This lady understood herself excellently in the art of sensitive conversation and in depriving a man of his pride within a few seconds.  
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hudson.  
I could actually use some advice from Sherlock.  
Did they randomly say where they were going or when they would come back? "  
"A new murder case ?! Oh, how exciting! Was it a very bloody crime scene? "  
There were few people who would have responded to the news of a murder as happily as this widow.   
Lestrade could only shake his head over such a behavior.  
"Mrs. Hudson? "He said in response to get back to the topic.  
"Oh, no, sweetheart, they did not say where they wanted to go or when they would come back.  
But I hope soon that's the case because in the meantime I'm watching out for little Rosie and the girl is starting to get hungry.  
I have now started to prepare her some porridge with oats in it and small raisins and apple pieces and .... "  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  
Would you be so kind to tell Sherlock to call me back when he returns home? "  
The inspector nipped the words of the older woman in the bud.  
Otherwise it would become an endless conversation and he had absolutely no time for that now .  
He was pretty sure that Sherlock would not call him back because he never did but nothing better had come to his mind to say right now.  
"Of course I can do that.  
Keep me up to date, see you soon, Inspector! "  
When Greg Lestrade had hung up he leaned back in his chair one more time and sighed heavily.   
That would be a long day.  
A knock on the door tore him out of his thoughts.  
"Come in!"  
A young insecure looking colleague entered.  
"Excuse me, Inspector, but there's a man on the phone who wants to talk to you."  
As if he did not already have enough to do now someone would want to report a nullity again.  
"He shall describe his concerns to a collegue and report, if necessary."  
With that the topic actually was done for Greg Lestrade but when the young policeman showed no sign of leaving the room the inspector looked up again.  
"Is something else?"  
"Well, sir, I'm very sorry but he just inists to talk to you.  
He won't speak to anybody else he said "  
Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise.  
Could this really be a recall from Sherlock ?!  
No, no way, the phone call with Mrs. Hudson was barely five minutes behind.  
"Who is it?"  
"Watson. John Watson.  
And he sounds pretty excited, sir! "  
Without hesitating for another moment Greg Lestrade reached for the handset the young man was holding out to him.   
"John, what can I do for you?"  
"Greg, you have to come.  
And bring your people.  
Something terrible has happened. "  
"What's up, John?  
Where should we come? "  
"To Molly Hooper's apartment."

 

When Inspector Lestrade sank down onto the couch next to John the former army doctor winced.   
Lost in his thoughts he had reviewed every single second of what had happened this morning and therefore hadn't noticed that the policeman had come into the living room.  
The inspector looked tired and worn out and the shock of the gruesome sight was written all over his face as well.  
"It's clear, is not it, Greg?"  
The addressee sighed.  
"Well, apart from that .."  
He pointed to the broken shards next to the kitchen window through which Sherlock and John had gained access earlier.  
"... there are no signs of foreign influence.  
Everything indicates that ... "  
He paused - unable to put it into words like John himself.  
The former army doctor finally ended his sentence.  
"... that Molly Hooper has tried to kill herself."  
For a while the two men remained silent.  
"But she is not here, where can she be? In her condition ?! "  
"Calm down, John.  
Molly is a smart woman with medical experience.  
She would have known to help herself.  
And I promise you:  
We will do everything we can to find her. "  
John nodded.  
"I know, Greg.   
She's your friend, too. "  
Lestrade got up and turned to leave.  
At the door he paused again and looked around for John.  
"But still....  
Please do not forget, John.  
Just because she's not here does not mean she's out of danger.  
You know what is said. "  
"Yes, Greg, I know."  
A shiver went down John's spine.  
"There's usually not just one try ..... "


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say time is a great healer.   
> They say everything is going to be alright.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers:
> 
> 1\. Serious content this time!   
> In this chapter suicide thoughts canbe found, so please read with caution.   
> I don't want to shock or traumatize anyone.   
> If someone should find him- or herself in the lines or have similar thoughts - please seek help!   
> There is always a way and surely someone you can turn to who will listen to you!  
> So, stay safe, dear ones! <3
> 
> 2\. I am always very happy about reviews.   
> This is my reward ;)  
> Of course I would also like it if you left a Kudos because I made the experience that these stories are rather clicked and read then :)

They say time is a great healer.   
They say everything is going to be alright.   
But what does it mean?  
Is it a wisdom of days long gone or just a phrase whose meaninglessness is concealed by the mantle of metaphor?   
How much truth lies in these wisdoms of life, which belong to the linguistic usage of every nation like the amen in church?   
Molly had been guided by such words all her life.   
Whenever she had stood before the abysses of life, they had given her new courage and reminded her that hundreds of years ago people had already struggled with similar problems in their lives.   
'You are not alone.   
Someone has been at the same point, where you are now, before and has some good advice for you'. 

Time heals all wounds...   
But now the words sounded like mockery in Molly's ears.   
Nothing would heal with the passing time even if she had been deceiving herself for years.   
The pain would not pass nor would the deep sadness, the loneliness or the awful feeling of inner emptiness.   
For a while she had bravely held herself to the surface but now she was mercilessly drawn back down into the depths and although she wanted to she no longer had the strength to resist.   
And to be honest - the will to fight was gone as well.   
Extinguished - like a flickering candle in a storm.  
Molly wiped her face with her hand.   
The wound on the palm of her hand left a damp mark on her forehead.   
No - even though she had thought, that she had finally regained control of her miserable life she had now to admit that she had been wrong all along.   
The phone call had cut the last rip cord that had prevented her from going down.   
A decision that had been made years ago - more like a fleeting thought showing up and immediately disappearing again - had now finally found its way into daylight and could no longer be rejected. 

Slowly the young pathologist rose.   
The shards under her feet crunched and clattered and dug painfully into the soles of her feet but Molly hardly sensed it.   
It almost felt like a drug frenzy - like being wrapped in foam and every movement feeling unreal.   
As if she no longer had any control over her actions and was only a silent observer of a play whose last act still had to be played.   
Mechanically Molly's fingers grasped the handles of the faucet and turned it on.   
Immediately clear, warm water flowed out of the tap and gradually began to fill the tub to the rim.   
Fascinated, Molly's eyes followed the flow of water that rushed down into the tub like a small waterfall - unstoppable, unbound and free.   
Of all the elements Molly had always preferred water.   
Its power, it's calmness and at the same time the energy it radiated and most of all the feeling of freedom that she had felt every time she had looked out at the thundering sea or watched a rushing river finding it's way down into the valley.   
Nothing and nobody could prevent its destiny.   
It was able to avoid every obstacle, to endure every whim of nature.   
Each drop had its own place in the big picture and gave the river its strength.   
As a child, Molly had often been on the rough coasts of northern England with her mother.   
Mother and daughter had shared this passion from the beginning.   
'The call of the sea' - that was what Molly's mother had called it.  
For hours they had just sat there staring at the horizon, watching the seagulls dance in the sky and enjoying the sound of the sea.   
'Give wings to your thoughts, my child.   
Send them far across the sea and see where they carry you'.   
Her mother's words were still clearly audible in Molly's mind today.   
Her soft voice and her warm, dark eyes were as well.   
It was all so far away now- like a chapter long gone.   
And Molly could no longer deny it - she longed for that time.   
The lightheartedness of her childhood was what she had wanted more than anything else for a long time.   
But nothing would bring these golden days back - she was aware of that.   
Nothing remained for her but the dark shadows of the here and now. 

Slowly Molly turned away and walked across the hall back into the living room.   
She stopped for a moment and let her gaze wander through the room.   
That was her home with all the things that had once been so important to her yet at that moment she was sure she would miss none of them.   
Not the furniture - not even the worn out sofa she had proudly bought from her first salary.   
All these items were no longer of importance.   
Molly went over to the kitchen counter, opened a drawer and took out a cardboard box.   
Only a second later she was no longer alone in the kitchen.   
Tobby was aware of this ritual all too well and knew that this box would most likely promise him a full bowl of food.   
He wasn't being disappointed this time either.   
Molly had already filled his food bowl to the brim and placed it in front of him.   
The tender, trembling fingers that stroked over his fur hardly bothered him while he was eating.   
Only when the hand was lingering for a moment longer than usual did the tomcat raise his head in surprise for a moment to look up at his owner.   
Something was different today.   
The amber eyes were scrutinizing the human in front of him before the tomcat devoted himself to his food again.   
"Take care, my little one.   
Take care of yourself!"   
The farewell was difficult but it didn't change the decision which had been made.   
The pain inside of her numbed all other feelings and left her to act.   
Molly's gaze fell once more on the framed photo of her father and a brief doubt ran through her.   
But then the paralyzing emptiness returned again immediately and called her to order.   
Throughout her life Molly had always cared for everyone else.   
She had always been there for the people around her and had willingly taken care of their problems without thinking of her own welfare.   
Everyday she had worked herself to the benefit of others even if it had meant that it had caused her suffering.   
She had always been the kind-hearted, lovable and diligent pathologist.   
For sure her father would suffer and certainly he would also sometimes blame himself but he would learn to live with it.   
He would have to learn to live with it because she was tired of always orienting her actions and plans towards the welfare of others.   
Perhaps now was the time for her to think only of herself and her soul.   
Maybe the time had come to be selfish.  
"I'm sorry, Dad. Please forgive me."   
One last time the young woman's fingers stroked over the picture frame, then she finally turned away.

When she returned to the bathroom, the water in the bathtub had risen just below the edge and she hurriedly turned off the running tap.   
Then she turned to her medicine cabinet and took something from the top shelf.   
It was lying cold and heavy in her hand, although the object was actually not bigger than a matchbox and certainly not a bit heavier.   
Silently the pathologist took off her clothes, threw them into the laundry bin and then climbed into the tub.   
The water was pleasantly warm and washed her body like a gentle wave.   
It was almost as if the water was welcoming her like a long lost friend.   
'Lie down, be quiet, you're safe here!   
For a moment Molly closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply, feeling the air filling her lungs and knowing at the same time that it would be her last breaths.   
But with every second that passed she could hear the urge of her inner voice more clearly. 

'Do it finally.   
It is about time.' 

Molly's hand cramped around the object in her hand.   
Its surface painfully drilled into her skin.   
When Molly opened her eyes and looked, the sharp-edged razor blade shone in the dull light of the ceiling lamp.   
Molly knew she had to do it right.   
A wrong cut would only hurt her but miss its target.   
One of the two main arteries had to be hit.   
Her decision had been made but still it took a great deal of overcoming of her to lift her arm.   
With trembling fingers she applied the blade to her forearm. 

'Do it.   
Do it now!.' 

Molly's lips trembled and cold sweat stood on her forehead.   
She was afraid more than she had ever been in her life and at the same time she was feeling more alive than she had in a long time. 

'Do it.   
Then it's over.   
All the suffering...' 

That was all it needed.   
With a quick movement Molly made the cut.   
The pain was unbearable.   
The tears shot into her eyes and she gasped desperately.   
She had to be fast now before the pain would completely paralyze her.   
Without hesitation she put the blade on her other arm and opened the other artery.   
Immediately the water around her turned red.   
The first moments were a torment of indescribable proportions.   
It felt like her whole body was on fire.   
She wanted to scream, to beat herself and at the same time she couldn't move.   
And then.... all of a sudden - the pain was over.   
Molly felt the blood being pumped out of her body.   
She could feel her light fading.   
But it no longer felt like a cave ride but like she was floating.   
As if she was weightless and detached.   
Molly closed her eyes.   
Tears ran down her cheeks through her closed eyelids - it was finally over.   
Finally she had found peace.

 

The thoughts came out of nowhere.   
They attacked her and gave her no choice.   
Pictures of her past:   
Sherlock- as he had walked through her door for the first time.   
Sherlock - how he had come to her over and over again to ask her for help - or rather had ordered that she had to help him.   
Sherlock - as he had humiliated her in front of everyone on Christmas Eve in Baker Street and then apologized to her afterwards.   
Sherlock - as he had appeared in her lab in the evening days before his disappearance and had initiated her into his plan.   
Sherlock - when he had kissed her on the cheek at the foot of the stairs and wished her a good life.   
Sherlock - the phone call.....   
Molly desperately opened her eyes.

"Leave me alone!   
Let me finally go in peace!"   
Her voice sounded unusually shrill and hollow.   
In addition, the movement again chased a hellish pain through her body. 

That's when Molly Hooper realized something:   
She didn't deserve to die like that.   
Alone, in the most depressing place in the world.   
If her life had already been cheerless and dreary her death should at least not be.   
She would go that way - without question - but for the first time in a long time Molly felt like she had control over something in her life and if she did, she would put an end to it the way she wanted to in order to reconcile herself with this world before leaving it.   
Not here.   
Not like that. 

 

How long had she been in here?   
It must have been at least 5 minutes.   
Actually she should already have fainted.   
Four minutes were enough to lose a lethal amount of blood from an open artery.   
She must have made a mistake.  
Still, it cost her all her strength to get out of the tub and the pathologist almost sank back into the water twice.   
Her limbs were as heavy as lead.   
She had already lost a lot of blood - too much for not being affected by it.   
The loss of blood made her waver rather than walk and by the time she finally reached the medicine cabinet a big pool of blood had already formed at her feet.   
In front of Molly's eyes black dots were dancing, which seemed to get bigger and bigger and only with the greatest effort she could still hold herself upright.   
It was only a matter of minutes before she would lose consciousness and collapse on the bathroom floor.   
'Stop the bleeding.'   
That was the next and essential step to take.   
A brief, expert look revealed to Molly that, fortunately, her trembling fingers must have just missed the arteries.   
As if an invisible guardian angel had sat next to her in the tub and held her hand as she had placed the blade, Molly thought bitterly.   
Whether it was a coincidence or a hint of fate - she didn't care.  
If she had been lying in the bathtub for any longer, the end result would probably have been the same but for now it meant that she could provisionally supply herself with a pressure bandage without bleeding to death in the foreseeable future.   
Despite her trembling hands the bandage was quickly applied and without wasting any time by cleaning her bloody hands she staggered out into the hallway towards her bedroom.   
Even though her vision was blurred and she would have preferred to fall on the bed immediately Molly didn't hesitate for a moment but wheezingly took the heavy suitcases from the cupboard - one of them fell to the floor and remained there lying behind the bedroom door.   
Then she ripped open the cupboard doors, carelessly pulled out a few pieces of clothing and threw them into the suitcase at her feet.   
She wouldn't need much changing anyway.   
Within a few minutes a taxi was called and then Molly stood at the front door ready to leave .   
She had washed her hands scantily and knotted her shaggy hair, which was still soaked by the bloody water, into a bun.   
She certainly still looked like a living corpse but that didn't bother her.   
Anyway, the taxi driver raised his eyebrows in surprise as he took her suitcase and stowed it in the trunk.   
"M'am"   
He seemed to notice that something was wrong but also that Molly was not in a chatty mood because he let her get into cab peacefully and didn't say a word after she had told him her destination.   
The taxi turned off the small side street into the main street just as another taxi was passing by - in which two men inside were heading towards their worst hours.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BANG....  
> John nearly dropped the newspaper he had been holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go....Chapter 9.  
> I really would like to know what you think about the story line.  
> Please leave a comment and tell me about it :)  
> Can you guess what will happen next??? :D

BANG....  
John nearly dropped the newspaper he had been holding.  
Just as he was about to close the front door behind him and climbing the stairs leading up to their apartment at 221 B Baker Street, a deafening crash broke the silence.   
The noise allowed only a rough guess of what had just happened, but something or somebody must have involuntarily and rapidly collided with the floor.   
John didn't really want to know what kind of strange act must have been going on a few meters above his head.   
It was out of question that the noise couldn't augur something good.   
The elderly lady who had just hurried out of her apartment - excited like a chicken - to John's side seemed certain of this as well.  
Her wrinkled forehead and the pursed lips spoke a clear language:   
It was not the first incident of this kind that morning.   
"Dr. Watson, would you be kind enough to explain to me what he's up to now?"   
Without any doubt - Mrs. Hudson's nerves weren't too well off.   
John helplessly shrugged his shoulders and meant with an apologizing shake of his head:   
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I have absolutely no idea.   
I left the house very early today and thank God he was still lying in bed then.   
I'm absolutely sure - I even took another look in his room before I left."   
When he heard himself talking like that, John couldn't help thinking that it sounded more like he was talking about his five-year-old son than an adult man.   
But everything that had to do with Sherlock Holmes differed from generally accepted standards.   
John sighed heavily.   
Life with him had never been easy but in the time to come it would be harder than ever, John knew instinctively.   
Mrs Hudson had obviously realized the suffering look on his face for suddenly she seemed almost compassionate.  
"You can't blame him for it right now - the deplorable man...   
That must have been a shock for him.   
Oh - our poor Molly!   
Her voice trembled and John sent inner prayers to heaven that the old lady wouldn't start crying in front of him right now for it could not be ruled out that then tears would fill his eyes again as well.  
Fearing the worst, he just laid his hand on Mrs Hudson's shoulder.   
A weak gesture of comfort he himself could have used himself very well.  
His words sounded pressed and artificial but John was glad that he could manage to express himself at all without collapsing again.   
"Yes, it has hit him pretty hard.   
He probably didn't expect that.   
Nobody did .....   
Not even I..."   
Damn - these self-reproaches were a curse.   
John Watson fleetingly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.   
"Well, well, dear doctor, you won't blame yourself for what has happened?"   
Another crash interrupted their conversation.   
"But I don't think you're the only one tormented by such thoughts."

Slowly John approached the front door of their apartment.   
Mrs. Hudson had preferred to return to her flat with the statement that one horrible sight within 24 hours had caused her enough excitement.   
John could not blame her.   
Their appearance when they had been coming through the front door around four in the morning had been - mildly verbalized - stirring, which was no wonder, considering what the two men had experienced in the past hours.   
After the Scotland Yard policemen had secured all traces at the scene and Inspector Lestrade had strongly advised the former army doctor and his 'mute' friend not to interfere and just to wait, life had returned to the motionless detective.   
John had only been able to smile tiredly about Greg Lestrade's request as he knew beyond a doubt that Sherlock would not leave a case - and certainly not this one - to the London police.   
His expectations had come true only a few minutes later when Sherlock suddenly had jumped up and run out of the apartment.  
Or rather had fled - to be more precise.   
The following hours they had spent pursuing every clue, no matter how small, to find Molly.   
That she had not died in the tub but must had left the apartment alive was clear from the evidence.   
Although Sherlock hadn't entered Molly's bedroom himself John's stories were sufficient to establish in him the conviction that Molly had probably intended to go on a journey hastily and spontaneously.   
The suitcase and the clothes lying on the floor had been a clear sign to him.   
It also sounded obvious to John that Molly probably hadn't set off on foot in her condition.  
A brief phone call with Scotland Yard had finally confirmed John and Sherlock's suspicions:   
Molly Hooper had called a taxi.  
The police had already been able to find out which taxi company the young pathologist had requested a taxi of and when it had arrived at her apartment.   
John shuddered every time he thought about the fact that Molly's taxi had set off just minutes before their arrival.   
They would have met by a hair's breadth.   
John was unable to say whether it was an unfortunate coincidence or fate.   
Sherlock seemed to have thought the same thing at that moment, as his already clenched jaw had become even more tensed.   
The strange thing, however, that had puzzled everyone involved, was the destination Molly had told her taxi driver.   
Everyone - even Sherlock - would have expected Molly to let herself being dropped of by the nearest airport or train station.   
But the taxi driver had stated that he had let the young woman get off the cab near Hyde Park.   
He had also remembered that she had trembled and had almost forgotten to pay him.   
She had also turned left at the first crossroad- he still had known that.  
John had to admit that he had been impressed by how attentively the driver had watched his customer suspecting that something might be wrong with her.   
However, the trace had been pathetic rather than helpful and only raised further questions.   
Why had Molly let herself being dropped off right there?   
It sounded more than absurd that she should have taken a walk in the park with a suitcase in her condition and when Greg Lestrade had nevertheless put forward this theory on the phone the former army doctor had had to snatch his friend's cell phone quickly before the detective could let go of a desperate insult tirade on the helpless police officer.   
Admittedly, this thought had also crossed John's mind for a moment, as bizarre as it sounded.   
The psyche of a human being was unfathomable and what the subconscious could cause it's owner to do in an exceptional situation was hard to assess.   
But since the chances were very slim he hadn't dared to accede to Inspector Lestrade in Sherlock's presence.   
Another, much more tragic assumption was more obvious:   
In the park there were many inaccessible places, tall trees with strong branches and a large lake in the middle.   
John had clearly seen that Sherlock had also been haunted by the spirits of these ideas, for he had immediately - if at all possible - turned a little paler when he had already been when he had heard where Molly had last been seen alive.   
However, he hadn't said a word.   
In general, the detective had hardly spoken in the past few hours.   
He had seemed almost stoic from the outside but the pallor and nervous flickering in his eyes had sold him out.   
It had been his only ambition then to find Molly as fast as possible and John had felt the same.   
For hours, the two men had searched the entire Hyde Park for clues - as had a dozen policemen had.  
The search had been unsuccessful.   
Nothing indicated that Molly Hooper had ever been there.   
When dusk had set in it had started to rain - at first only slightly, then more and more heavily.   
Moving on the damp, slippery ground had become a torture and Scotland Yard had finally stopped searching.   
John and Sherlock hadn't.   
Even though the temperatures had dropped dramatically and John had frozen miserably giving up was out of the question.   
Together they had also searched the roads adjacent to the park and finally Sherlock had informed his underground informants as well.   
But it was like a bad dream:   
No one had seen Molly, no one could provide a useful lead.   
In the early hours of the morning John had finally been completely exhausted.   
The nerve-wracking day had taken its toll.   
He longed for his bed and a warm shower.   
He also remembered in a panic, that Mrs Hudson was still taking care of Rosie and that he hadn't even let her know what has hapened.   
Sherlock had hardly accepted to return home empty-handed.   
He himself was at the end of his rope, but it would have been more likely in this situation that the detective would have bitten off his own tongue than to admit that he would not find Molly.   
Not tonight.   
John's words had rolled off him like the rain that had been wetting their skin.   
It wasn't until the army doctor had stumbled and fallen to his knees that Sherlock had taken his condition seriously and reluctantly followed him back to Baker Street.   
As soon as they had stepped inside the front door, a raging Mrs. Hudson had already awaited them, demanding an explanation.   
In a few sentences, John had tried to make the situation clear to their landlady, while Sherlock had stormed up into their apartment without saying a word.   
Mrs. Hudson's anger had immediately turned into deep concern when she had learned of the events of the day and without hesitation she had offered to take care of John's little daughter until Molly would be found.  
John was thus relieved of a great burden.   
Worrying about Molly's, Sherlock's and Rosie's well-being at the same time would have overstrained him and he also knew that at the moment he could not be a support for the child that had recently lost it's mother.  
When John had come up to the apartment Sherlock had already disappeared into his bedroom.   
Although John had been worried about his friend he had not followed him on the assumption that Sherlock needed his free space even more urgently than usual at this moment.   
Instead, he had made himself a cup of tea and then gone to bed.   
But he had not been able to sleep.   
Hour after hour he had rolled from one side to the other until he had finally got up around seven o'clock in the morning, had dressed and had stepped into the hazy dawn of London in order to arrange his thoughts during a morning walk.   
He had not yet seen Sherlock.  
Now, however, the Consulting Detective seemed to be among the living again and to announce this to the world noise-intesively.   
Sighing and prepared for all eventualities, John pushed open the door to her generous living area and stopped dead in his tracks.

As already mentioned, John had already encountered Sherlock while doing the most incredible actions, which had often blown the boundaries to madness, but what he now found was no longer to be surpassed in peculiarity.   
Sherlock Holmes stood with his back turned towards his friend in front of the armchair, in which he usually was sitting while doing his mental work, holding a weapon in his right hand with which he had pierced the piece of funiture's back.   
On closer inspection, the object in his hand could be unmasked as a large two-handed sword.   
John had already seen such a weapon several times - mainly on guided tours through the armouries of old castles and dungeons.   
The last time was about a year ago when he had visited a weapons exhibition in the Tower of London with Mary.   
Much more questionable, however, than the question of what purpose Sherlock owned such an outdated defence instrument for, was why he was maltreating the back of his armchair with it right now.   
The next moment he just pulled it out with momentum, only to have it, shortly afterwards, accompanied by an almost animalistic growl, again powerfully sunk into the fabric at another point.  
"Sherlock?"   
At any other time John would have suspected an absurd, bizarre case behind this behavior, but now he felt clearly that cause was far more obvious.   
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"   
Carefully, like approaching a shy wild animal, John got closer to his friend and softly grabbed him by the arm.   
Visibly shocked by the sudden touch the detective swirled around, lost his balance and landed ungentle in the soft - though somewhat torn to pieces - pillows of the maltreated victim.   
The sword found its place on the ground, causing a loud crashing sound - Mrs. Hudson would surely thank them very much....  
A look into Sherlock's face confirmed John's apprehensions.   
"John!"   
A cheerful, almost crazy smile played around the lips of the world-famous man.   
"Well, you'rrre finalliii awakeeeee, you sleepyhead!"   
The smell of vodka made John retch.   
How much for God's sake had Sherlock been drinking in the past hours?   
A bucket full?  
"You're drunk."   
"Welllll combined, you detectiffe... detectitivv... detetectitive."   
Before Sherlock could lose himself in further versions of the word, John grabbed him almost roughly by the shoulder and shook him.   
"What is this? Is that the solution now?"   
Sherlock's facial expression changed within a second and a desperate sparkle glowed in his eyes.   
Even if his body and voice no longer obeyed him his mind seemed - hidden in a lake of vodka or whatever else he had consumed; whiskey, rum, methylated spirits...hard to say - still functioning.   
"There's no solution - just a trigger."   
With a sweeping arm movement the detective pointed to his own head.   
"Me..."   
This was obviously the end of the conversation for him, because he rose wobbly and staggered unsteadily on his legs towards his bedroom.   
Two or three times he collided with pieces of furniture that couldn't be blamed for standing in his way.   
Under normal circumstances Sherlock's condition would have amused John to the fullest.   
Now it caused the good-natured army doctor nothing but sheer concern.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had folded up the collar of his coat as protection against the bitter cold.   
> The wind had refreshed and the sky was cloudy - it would still rain today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10....  
> Please tell me what you think about it!

He had folded up the collar of his coat as protection against the bitter cold.   
The wind had refreshed and the sky was cloudy - it would still rain today.   
He took an ample puff of his cigarette before the miserable stump was carelessly dropped to the ground.   
The wet twigs hung low and trickles had already formed on his shoulders.   
In the semi-shade of the trees his face lay hidden.   
Nobody would become aware of his presence.   
No one would remember ever having seen him.   
He was invisible to the world around him.   
A spirit.   
A nameless shadow.   
A phantom.   
A player without a name or face.   
And this was his game.   
He had followed her - had watched her from a distance.   
Had memorized her characteristics like the way she moved, the shape of her face - as well as the few freckles on her cheeks.   
Even the colour of her eyes had burned into his memory, although it had been hard to figure out from where he was standing.   
Nothing had escaped him.   
No detail he had missed.  
He was a professional.   
A master of his craft.  
A hunter who knew his territory down to the last corner.   
She hadn't heard the click of the camera - it had been drowned by the noise of the whooshing trees.   
He had known when to pull the trigger without being noticed.   
He was aware of the rules of the game pretty well - after all he had set them up himself.   
He knew what was important to gain success.   
The direction the wind was blowing, the play of the shadows between the branches, the reflecting water of the lake - he was aware of the judges of nature who would try to manipulate his game.   
But he also knew how to bypass them.   
He had learned to resist them.   
Once again he lifted his binoculars.   
She was still there - standing motionless on the shore of the lake, looking out over the water.   
He had noticed her as soon as she had gotten out of the cab.   
He immediately had seen that she was perfect to play his game.   
The list of requirements was long and he had practiced being patient over time.   
He had drawn his conclusions from the mistakes of his past.   
To get in action too fast and too hasty could ruin all the effort.   
Patience!   
He had learned to stop the voice that drove him to hurry.   
A crude act did not correspond to the rules of the game.   
Time alone was it that gave the game it's pleasure.   
And he had learned to be patient.   
Waiting.   
Lurking.   
A predator, ready to jump.   
But it was not yet time to jump.   
Waiting.   
Holding out.   
Observing.   
Slowly she now walked on and so did he.   
Carefully.   
Slowly.   
Quietly.   
She should not become aware of him.   
Not yet.   
The game was like this.   
The suitcase she pulled behind her clattered with every step.   
A wheel had obviously been damaged by the gravel on the ground.   
It almost sounded like a challenge in his ears.   
'The game begins.'   
Her movements were swift but not hectic.   
She wanted to leave but didn't seem to know where to go.   
She looked kind of aimless.   
He would change that.  
He would give her a goal and she would thank him for it.   
She was the perfect candidate.   
Alone.   
Isolated.   
He had also noticed right away that she had to be in agony.   
The suitcase could not be very heavy and yet it seemed to cause her pain to move it forward.   
Her footsteps had been tedious despite her speed.  
He had also recognized the red spots on her wrist through the binoculars.   
She had apparently tried to wipe them off but he could still see them - the traces of an irrevocable act.   
He was attentive - he recognized when candidate was weak.   
Like a carnivore looking for an injured animal as prey, that was his strategy as well.   
And now he had found a lonely sheep once again.  
A special one because this specimen was unique.   
Delicate.   
Innocent.   
Of a natural beauty.   
A light smile played around his lips.   
She would fit perfectly into the ranks of those who had played the game before her.   
He had also perceived the mental pain written in her eyes from the start.   
Her rigid gaze had unmasked her.   
She was impaired in two ways.   
The chances were good that she would make it easy for him to win.   
But he would challenge her to see what she had to oppose him.   
Too many had already given up the game after the first round.   
Too bad.   
The real fun would have awaited them only afterwards.   
He just hoped he was wrong this time and she would be different than so many of her predecessors.   
They had been vain and that had been their mistake.   
Vain and effeminate from a luxurious life.   
This one was different - he could feel it clearly.   
She had had to fight in her life - fate had not been merciful with her so far.   
And he wouldn't be either.   
But the game could free her from her pain.   
It was a chance he was giving to her.   
A gift.   
If he looked at it that way he was sure:   
She would accept it gratefully - sooner or later.  
She paused and looked around.   
Had she seen him or heard the cracking of the twigs under his feet?   
He had been careless and had let himself be guided by his thoughts.   
The shadow between the trees remained motionless.   
No breath revealed his presence.   
He was invisible.   
His breathing - no more than the howling wind that was stroking through the branches.   
She hesitated for a moment then continued on her way.   
Her steps were now bigger and more focused.   
She now obviously knew where to go.   
He followed her.   
Silently.   
Clever and fast.   
He would not lose sight of her.  
Wherever she wanted to go - he would follow.   
Without turning around again she left the park on the opposite side and turned left.   
Unnoticed he emerged from the shadows of the trees and in the next moment had already disappeared in the crowd of people hurrying over London's sidewalks.   
He was now one of them.   
One of those you would meet on the street but wouldn't remind any more in the evening.   
Invisible.   
A drop of water in a ocean.   
He was now close behind her.   
Hardly more than five metres separated them.   
They had reached the entrance to the Underground and she hardly managed to carry the heavy suitcase down the stairs.   
Again and again her arms failed and a painfully distorted expression lay on her face.   
'Fear not, my angel. I am close by.'   
The voice drove him forward.   
With a quick movement of his hand he had grasped the handle of the red suitcase.   
She flinched - then she looked at him.   
Her eyes were reddened and swollen.   
He could see the dried blood still stuck to the tips of her hair.  
Her despair was palpable.   
Now he wasn't allowed to make a mistake.   
The game had begun.   
"Let me help you, miss."   
His smile fit him perfectly like the mask of a playmaker.  
He could tell that she was not able to look through it.   
His friendly gesture simply surprised her.   
"Thank you, I guess I don't have the strength today."   
She smiled dimly.   
He knew this facial expression - he had seen it before.   
Hopelessness.   
They had all carried that look at some point.   
Once again he was sure to have found the ideal candidate.   
From close up she was even more beguiling.   
A symbol of perfection.   
It would be a game he would never forget.   
"It's no trouble at all, miss."   
He could be charming - his best strength, as he knew.   
Charm was the undisputed bait.   
And it was only a matter of time before they all took the bait.   
Without hesitation he carried the suitcase to the end of the stairs and handed it over to it's owner.   
The trap was laid out.   
But she seemed to be too busy with her own thoughts and not to succumb to his attraction.   
"Thank you again."   
"Not at all, miss."   
She grabbed her suitcase and took it away with her.   
His eyes followed her.   
She was not ready for it.   
Not yet.   
He had to be patient.   
Wait and see.   
Watching from the shadow. 

 

An unnameable fear had spread inside her, of which she did not know where it had come from.   
It was as if an ice-cold hand had laid itself around her throat for a moment.   
The strange feeling made her pause.  
But when Molly turned around the stranger had already disappeared again in the crowd.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock came back into the living room his appearance had normalized. ....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there - how are you? :)  
> What do you think about this chapter??? PLEASE tell me - it helps me a lot!  
> Lots of love xxx

When Sherlock came back into the living room his appearance had normalized.   
Only the reddened eyes and the deep shadows below them indicated a long, sleepless night.   
However, his gaze had regained clarity again and a certain energy lay in his appearance.   
John, who had spent the last few hours reading the newspaper about ten times - he hadn't even been able to concentrate on a single article after all - and brewing some tea in the kitchen several times, looked up surprise.   
Judging by the condition of his friend when he had met him this morning he wouldn't have expected the detective to be visible again amongs the living before the late evening hours.   
To this day, the former army doctor was unable to tell how Sherlock had managed to sober up in less than two hours.   
But John had never dared to question the riddles behind the bedroom door of the famous man.   
He probably wouldn't have liked the answer anyway.   
"How are you?"   
The question was only meant as a phrase and - perceived as such by Sherlock - the detective didn't seem to see the need for an answer behind it either, because he crossed the room wordlessly and then let himself sink into his armchair with a thoughtful expression on his face.  
Tiny clouds of the tattered pillow filling were floating through the air at once.   
John sighed softly.   
He had been Sherlock's friend for long enough to know that they had now reached the point where it was best not to ask any further but simply to persevere and wait for a reaction.   
John had learned to accept this behaviour - even though he couldn't approve it.   
At the beginning of their friendship this peculiarity had driven John round the bend.   
He had simply been unable to understand how Sherlock could sit motionless for hours and be lost in thought when there had been an explosive case to solve outside their four walls.   
This obvious inactivity had long been uncompehensible to the energetic doctor but it had only been a matter of time that he had realized that Sherlock's Mind Palace could often make a significant contribution to solving a crime.   
Pushing him forward with questions would have been unsuccessful anyway and only have delayed any clarification.   
But now it was different.   
This case was different this time.   
It wasn't a client's case or a desperate request for help from a helpless inspector - it was the life of a friend at stake and John wasn't sure whether Sherlock's mind could be relied upon right now.   
The events had obviously hit him more than anything else before in their joint career.   
John almost dared to claim that this event had overshadowed the experiences of the past weeks.   
Not even the terrible memories of the atrocities of the detective's childhood had caused such an emotional breakdown.

The young father watched his friend from the corner of his eyes.   
Eurus belonged to Sherlock's family and the relationship with his family members could be described as complicated to say the least.   
Yet John was sure that Sherlock loved them dearly in his own strange and unnamable way.   
They were ab important part of his existence and even though he had continuously denied any emotional impulses towards his family, John had never fully believed him.   
He knew that he would stand up for both his parents and his siblings if it really mattered.   
With Molly it had been different - John had always interpreted Sherlock's wilful ignorance towards the young woman as genuine and had of course resented him for that.   
Molly Hooper didn't deserve such treatment especially not from someone who had asked her a favor almost every week. 

And than, at that exact moment - John finally understood.   
Asking for Molly's help hadn't been necessary for many cases but rather useful.   
But if John was sure of one thing it was that Sherlock wouldn't share his fame with someone else if he could trust his own intellect.   
And most of the information he had obtained from Molly had been important but not essential for clarification.   
What was it that she had been able to reveal to him?  
Findings that he himself had certainly been able to gain - hours before asking her.   
This circumstance only permitted one logical conclusion why Sherlock had consulted Molly repeatedly:   
The emotions that Sherlock felt towards the young woman had to have their roots far deeper than anyone - including the detective himself - could have ever thought...

"John?   
The former army doctor jerked in shock and was immediately catapulted back to reality.   
Sherlock's gaze had detached itself from the wall and was now pointed directly at him.  
The detective wrinkled forehead and looked at his friend.   
Only then did John realize that the effect of his mental discovery must have been reflected in his facial expression.   
"Yeah? What's the matter?"   
A pretty stupid statement, which the intelligent man would certainly immediately declare as such, but John wanted to avoid at all costs that his friend would discover the origin of his brooding.   
Sherlock's eyebrows wandered a little higher.   
"What the matter is?  
You've been staring at the article about trout farming in North Wales for over ten minutes now.   
If you're not looking for a career as a fisherman in the near future your behavior is questionable without a doubt."   
John's gaze fell on the newspaper in his hands and unfortunately he had to agree with his friend.   
The article didn't look very promising and probably wouldn't offer much opportunity to confirm Sherlock's thesis so he embarrassedly cleared his throat and just put the newspaper aside.   
To his great astonishment the detective didn't comment on the situation any further but leaned back in his armchair again.   
John breathed a sigh of relief - confronting Sherlock with his findings at the moment certainly wouldn't have led to a fine ending now - even though he knew that he would have to face this task sooner or later.   
But in this moment there was more important work to do because they had to find Molly - as soon as possible.   
However, before John could say a word it was Sherlock who began to speak again.   
"Where can she be, John?   
Why didn't we find any traces or clues in the park?   
She must have had a reason to go there.   
What did we miss?"   
The last sentence sounded more like he was talking to himself but John replied anyway.   
"We probably won't know the reason until we find her, Sherlock.   
But for now we have to figure out first where she went after leaving the park.   
And if she's all right."   
"No John, you are mistaken as you so often are.   
It is very important to know why she was there and nowhere else.   
That could be the key to her disappearance."   
John sighed again.   
He tried to make his voice sound calm and soft as he started talking again.   
"Sherlock - we know why she left, it's only a matter of time before..."   
"I know."   
The voice of the consulting detective was now quiet and yet sharp as a blade - almost like the hissing of a predator.   
"But if that had been the only reason, she would have done it in her apartment.   
Then she wouldn't have left the tub.   
She would have commited s...   
The detective didn't seem to be able to pronounce the unimaginable.   
His lips had started to tremble again and a single tear was streaming down his cheek.   
Hastily and almost defiantly he wiped it aside, jumped up and began to walk around the room restlessly.   
John already regretted his words; he hadn't meant to cause his friend any more pain than he obviously already felt   
This emotional side of his partner was new and unknown to him.   
He would have to get used to it.   
"I'm sorry, Sherlock.   
I....   
This is not what I tried to express.   
I..."   
"Stop apologising, John!   
An apology is ineffective if there is no change of behaviour."   
Again John was under the vague impression that Sherlock was talking to himself more than to him.   
But he decided to just slur over it - the situation required their full concentration and didn't facilitate any escalating discussions.   
"Molly has a father who lives not far from London.   
Maybe she's gone to see him," he suggested hesitantly instead.   
"Unlikely.   
Molly has not visited her father in recent months.   
Something seems to have overshadowed their relationship."   
How the hell had he gotten this information?   
But Sherlock hadn't reached the end of his wisdom yet.   
"Probably because of her miserable life, which course Mr. Hooper probably disagreed with."   
Now John couldn't resist his questions any longer.  
"Which course?   
What do you mean with that?  
Molly was.... is a talented pathologist."   
Sherlock's gaze had immediately turned cold when the subject had come to James Hooper.   
"It didn't seem as if he was particularly happy with Molly's choice of career - or the choice of her infatuations."   
He paused briefly.   
"Candidates like me."   
Once again anger was boiling up inside John - how could his friend still be so blind?   
"You haven't been just a simple 'crush' for Molly Hooper.   
Can't you finally see that..."   
"I do now........meanwhile.   
Sherlock's face had turned pale once more and for a moment he closed his eyes as if that could ward off the emotions that were trying to damn him.  
John hesitated.   
He slowly became aware that Sherlock had apparently for years either not recognized Molly's feelings or hadn't been able to admit them.   
Concealed behind the façade of a strong, untouchable genius a helpless and insecure man came into view who had made so many mistakes in his life.   
And especially one mistake he might never be able to undo.   
And especially one mistake he maybe would never be able to undo.   
John swallowed.   
He should stop condemning Sherlock for his behavior.   
He was probably blaming himself enough.

Instead, he just kept asking.   
"How do you know that?  
"More than a year ago he visited London and his daughter.   
I met him when I went to see Molly in the morgue due to a case.   
And believe me John - I could clearly feel his dislike."   
John nodded - if even Sherlock could feel someone's dislike it really had to be enormous.   
He couldn't blame James Hooper either.  
If he felt that someone would bring bad luck to Rosie he would certainly feel nothing but sheer hatred as well.   
James Hooper was a loving father who wanted just to make sure of his child's welfare - you couldn't blame him for that, right?   
"What about the forensic lab?"   
"No, John, this chapter is closed for her.   
Molly wouldn't go back there again.   
She has turned her back on her old life."   
John thoughtfully ran his fingers through his hair.   
It was truly frustrating.   
He slowly ran out of ideas.   
Had Molly had any other social contacts?!   
He couldn't remember if she had ever talked about someone in her life exept her father.  
Could it be true that she had been all alone?   
Suddenly the former army doctor had another idea.   
"What about hospitals?   
Surely she had to get medical care, didn't she?   
Sherlock thoughtfully swayed his head.   
"No, my informants would have already told me that.  
Besides - Molly is very smart.   
She obviously doesn't want to be found and it wouldn't be advisable to go to a London hospital then.  
All the registration documents - she would have been tangible to the police or whoever within minutes."   
John could only agree with that.   
The two men were spending a few minutes silently brooding until the ringing of John's cell phone tore the silence apart.   
John took a quick look at the display and his face brightened a little.   
"Scotland Yard. Maybe they have found her?"   
Sherlock's facial expression was clear to interpret as 'excluded' but John picked up anyway.   
"Greg, please tell me you have good news for us!"   
His hope, however, was nipped in the bud.   
"Unfortunately no, John.   
All traces lead to nothing.   
Seems like Molly has disappeared from the face of the earth.   
After all we've been able to test the blood in her bath and now we have certainty:  
It's Molly Hooper's blood and it's also a considerable amount but the tests haven't revealed much more.   
We've also contacted Molly's only remaining relative - her father - in Marlborough.   
He hasn't seen her for months but we hope that she may visit or call him any time soon.   
Otherwise he will be on his way to London in the next few days."   
By the time the inspector had finished his report John's courage had already sunk to the bottom.   
No clue.   
Nothing.   
They were still at the beginning of this case.   
"Thank you, Greg.   
Keep us up to date, please."   
"Of course, John.   
We'll find her."   
His words didn't sound very convincing and John knew deep down that the inspector as well didn't believe any more that the young pathologist would be found safe and sound.

A teacup hit the wall forcefully and burst into thousand of shards.   
Appalled, John dropped his cell phone.  
"Christ, Sherlock...."   
Sherlock's hand, which had just held the cup, trembled with excitement.   
John realized that the detective - contrary to his ideology and his expressed expectations - had secretly hoped for good news from Scotland Yard.   
He was about to start calming down his furious friend as they were interrupted by a knock at the door. 

A boy - he could have hardly been older than 13 years and wore well worn, dirty clothes on his body - shoved his head in.   
One of the numerous street boys who belonged to Sherlock's circle of informants - undoubtedly.   
The boys, who had their eyes and ears practically everywhere, appreciated the famous detective, who often dug deeper than necessary into his pockets to reward them for their help.   
Respectfully, their visitor took of his holey cap and hesitantly entered.   
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir, may I have a moment?"   
Sherlock's face brightened instantly at the sight of their unexpected guest.   
He seemed to know the boy pretty well.  
"Sammy, my best.   
What brings you here?   
Do you have anything to report to me?"   
The boy nodded eagerly.   
"Yes, sir, it was really difficult at the beginning.   
Nobody had seen her, sir.  
But then, then I've found her.   
She seemed to really be in a hurry.   
She got off the subway and I followed her, of course!"   
A certain pride lay in his smile and John realized once again how helpful Sherlock's underground informants had been for solving many cases.   
Sammy paused briefly, then continued:   
"She walked into the hall of the train station.   
Kensington Olympia Train Station - you know this place, huh?  
Man, there were a lot of people.   
I actually lost her in the crowd.   
How good that I had been looking at her so well before, otherwise I probably wouldn't even have noticed..."   
Again the boy hesitated and it was clearly recognizable that he would now come to the most unpleasant part of his story.   
"I looked for her - everywhere - i promise - but she was just gone.   
As if dissolved in air.   
At some point I just stopped because I didn't know what to do any more.   
In a garbage can, close to the exit doors, right behind the corner....  
Right behind in the corner.   
I went closer because I wanted to be sure I was right and this is where I found it.   
Right at the bottom - hidden under papers and garbage."   
The whole time John had unconsciously been holding his breath.   
Sherlock's voice sounded calm and yet John knew his pulse had to be as high as his own.   
"What did you find there, Sammy?"   
The boy swallowed and then pulled something out of his shoulder bag.   
In this moment John felt like his heart had stopped beating and black dots were dancing in front of his eyes.   
Sherlock faltered slightly next to him.   
With his little hand the boy stretched out to the two men a large shock of dark brown hair, which ends were covered with blood.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze wandered to the telephone once more.   
> How often he had jumped up, in the firm conviction that he had heard it ringing - he couldn't say any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short today, my dears. :)  
> I'm always joyful about my busy reviewers and would be even more happy if a few more readers would write a short (or longer;) ) comment below it. :)  
> How do you like this chapter? And yes - it is important for the course of the story ;)  
> What do you think about it?  
> Lots of love :)

His gaze wandered to the telephone once more.   
How often he had jumped up, in the firm conviction that he had heard it ringing - he couldn't say any more.   
Perhaps it had been wishful thinking every single time, but even though he had been well aware of that, he had still gotten up over and over again just to sink back on the couch just moments later.   
The redeeming call had not yet come, the comforting words had not been uttered so far.   
James Hooper was an intelligent man.   
Behind the lenses of his glasses a life full of experiences was reflected in his eyes.  
He knew about the meaning of a call of the police that never came.  
He had been at this point before - but this horrible moments were long gone.  
At least he had hoped so until three days ago.  
When the inspector had introduced himself to him on the phone, suddenly the time had been standing still for Molly's father and for him it didn't seem as another second had passed since then. 

While talking to the inspector of Scotland Yard the elderly man had already guessed what had happened.   
Not that he could have foreseen.   
No - he had just felt with a father's intuition that something terrible had happened.   
Something had been irretrievably broken.   
The news from London had shocked him less than it had saddened him.  
And with the sadness the invincible powerlessness had returned and had once again tried to break him down. 

The photo album on his lap weighed heavily - almost like lead on the feet of a drowning man and yet he couldn't put it aside.   
A book full of memories - a memorial to better times long gone now.   
His psychologist would certainly have vehemently disadvised him from confronting the shadows of the past in such a situation but James Hooper had had to distract himself.   
The pictures and words written below - drawn in the delicate handwriting of his deceased wife - made him hold on; were a desperate cling to the wafer-thin threads of hope that held a happy end to this tragedy.   
As unlikely as it was - he wanted to believe it.   
He wanted it for the welfare of himself, his daughter and his wife as well.   
Grace had been a dreamer.   
To her a story had only been complete when the end had been satisfactory.   
With her flourishing imagination and the ability to captivate everyone with her words she had been a gift to her environment.   
As a child Molly had taken many of her traits and had sharred this joie de vivre.   
But those days were long gone.   
James Hooper could hardly remember the last time he had seen the vivid sparkle in his child's gaze.   
It must have been years ago.  
Any glow had vanished and the happiness had disappeared from her eyes as well - and there was nothing he could have done about it.   
He knew that he would not have succeeded anyway, for how could an extinguished torch ignite a fire?   
Over the years he had learned to deal with the pain of loss, as had his strong daughter. 

He had always known that she was a fighter - just like Grace.   
But James Hooper was also aware that she had used up her strength too much in recent years.   
In the first months after Grace's death Molly had been his support and had prevented him from collapsing.   
She had been the light that had kept him from sliding into the darkness completely.   
Too late he had realized that she had given herself up because of it.   
For a long time he hadn't even noticed that she had put all her wishes and needs aside for his sake.   
Based on these findings he had finally been able to accept that she would leave Marlborough and move to London to study forensic medicine.   
Of course, her choice of career had not made him happy.   
He had simply not been able to imagine the lively and imaginative child, who had sat on his lap constantly telling him about her adventures, in an environment marked by death and suffering.   
It had been this and rather less the wish of a socially accepted career for his daughter that had brought the retired teacher to this attitude, but James Hooper had never admitted that to Molly.  
His fear had been too great that she would retreat even more into her snail shell.   
Instead, he had tried to change her mind more or less inconspicuously through his comments, and thereby he had achieved exactly what he had been trying to avoid:  
Molly had isolated herself more and more from him and the contact had become less and less.   
James Hooper had had a hard time saying goodbye to her when she had left Marlborough but it was getting harder with every day now.  
The separation from his child had been hurting him unspeakably, but when he had noticed that putting pressure on her seemed to have the opposite effect, he had stopped asking Molly to visit him.   
From time to time the sense of guilt seemed to drive her back home, but each time the father had felt more clearly that she wasn't comfortable in the place of her childhood any more.   
And he could understand it, because even if he had gotten his life under control again in the meantime and was no longer dependent on the help of his daughter, it was clear to him that the 'soul of the house' - as Grace would have called it - had disappeared.   
Marlborough was no longer a home for Molly and neither was London he guessed, because whenever he had visited her - and that hadn't been very often - he hadn't been able to get rid of the feeling that she wasn't really happy there either.   
She was good at her job - no question about it - and she seemed to like it in a way, but she didn't seem to be full of happiness.   
She seemed restless, sad and deeply lonely.  
James Hooper had wished for another life for his child.   
A house and her own family.  
Something fulfilling that would give back the joy to her she had been losing over the years.  
But even that did not seem to be granted her. 

Among other things, the loving father had hoped that male acquaintances would become possible for his daughter with her move to the big city, but the only acquaintance his daughter had held on had been that tiresome detective whose appearance in Molly's life the former teacher had cursed.   
At first, Molly's father had suspected that his daughter had just had a fleeting crush on him, but over time it had become clear to him that Molly's affection for this peculiar, calculating and emotionally cold man seemed to go far deeper.   
But unlike his little girl, he had never not been able to find anything good to say about him.   
From a father's point of view, Sherlock did not have a single quality that one could wish for one's own daughter - quite the opposite, to tell the truth.  
Unfortunately, his dislike according this man had made the trench between him and his daughter even deeper.   
Like a naive teenager, she had not wanted to listen to his warnings.   
Only when Tom had appeared in the pathologist's life and the world-famous detective had seemed to have found his end by jumping of a roof, had he been reassured and had seen a bright future for his only child.   
All the more disappointing it had been for James Hooper when the presumed dead man had reappeared among the living and had destroyed his hopes with it.   
He had tried to bring Molly to terms, but it had been useless.   
Within a few weeks the engagement with Tom had been dissolved again and even though Molly had vehemently denied that her decision had had something to do with the detective, he had never fully believed her.   
Since then he had hardly seen his daughter.   
She seemed to have sensed his disappointment at her actions, but he couldn't change how he felt.   
This man would only bring misfortune and suffering to his child, the father had instinctively known that. 

And now his fears seemed to have come true.   
At the thought of Sherlock Holmes, the rage was immediately rising again inside James Hooper.   
How much he abhorred this man - he could hardly put it into words.   
He had observed how disparagingly and emotionlessly he had abused his daughter as a support for his cases when he had visited her in London over a year ago.  
She would have done everything for him - and this was what tortured James Hooper to most:  
He had been watching his daughter suffer for many years now and within th elast months it had slowly but steadily seemed to become better for her.  
And than this man had destroyed everything once again.  
James Hooper had had to watch how his daughter's gentle heart had been broken more and more for the detective's sake with each passing day.  
As if she would become invisible and drown in pain.  
This man was not worth her feelings.   
He had robbed Molly of her already almost distorted powers.  
He had let her down.  
James Hooper had tried again and again to talk some sense into his daughter, but he clearly felt that his words had never really reached her.   
Every thought according the world-famous detective fuelled the hatred in James Hooper.   
And maybe the only reason he wasconstantly throwing tinder into the embers was that this way he could cover his own feelings of guilt.   
The accusations he blamed to himself for not having been there when his child had needed him most, even though he actually knew deep down that he couldn't have helped her anyway.   
It was her life, her decisions.   
And if she wanted it to end this way, nobody would be able to stop her:   
Not himself.   
Not Scotland Yard.   
And noone else.   
James Hooper was aware of this.   
And yet:   
He would not give up on the life of his child.   
Not yet. 

The elderly man rose from the couch with a new found determination and grabbed the telephone.   
He had had the number of Scotland Yard on speed dial for days.   
The even beep was sounding through the receiver when the rining of the bell at the front door made him stop dead in his tracks.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The large hall of Kensignton Olympia Train Station was crowded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long, but I was very busy the last week. :)  
> Feel free to leave a comment - I would really appreciate it!  
> Lots of love :)

The large hall of Kensignton Olympia Train Station was crowded.  
As usual during rush hour hundreds of people were streaming through the wide entrance doors, heading for the different tracks.  
Successful businessmen and -women with tensed facial features hurriedly and impatiently tried to overtake clusters of pupils who seemed to be relieved that they had sucessfully survived another day at school.  
A bustling murmur was filling the air and one might have thought one was in a beehive.  
Most travellers seemed to be absorbed in their own thoughts.  
Merely a few looked up from their smartphones or newspapers.  
Hardly anyone seemed to notice the presence of the famous detective and his partner.  
Only a group of Japanese tourists enthusiastically pulled out their cameras and a handful of teenagers excitedly nudged each other, stuck their heads together, whispered briefly to each other and then hurriedly took some photos of the famous detective with their Iphones.  
Probably the pictures - embedded in a blanket of hashtags - would find their place on the different Instagramaccounts and other online portals.  
In the middle of the crowd, employees of the station staff gathered the remains of a metaphorical food battle that had never reached the garbage can.  
Wearing flashy warning vests the looked like dots of light, the men stood out from the dark dressed crowd, John remarked.  
Striking and yet obviously invisible to the people who were rushing in different directions.  
Well - not all of them seemed to be in a hurry.  
A few meters away, an older couple held each other tightly in their arms - an imminent separation obviously inevitable.  
Finally the pensioner detached himself from her, placed a gentle kiss on the forehead and reached for his suitcase with a trembling hand.  
What he had said to her had been drowned out by the sea of sounds filling the station concourse.  
But the former army doctor was sure that it had been a promise of a reunion and for a split second the sight drove tears into his eyes.  
He would never be able to make that promise to Mary again.  
Fate hadn't been kind to them - their love had been too short; like the part of a time-lapse scene.  
For Mary, it was too late.  
He had missed his chance of showing her how precious she had been to him.  
And maybe - as much as he wished it would be different - Molly as well wouldn't get the chance to hear those words anymore.  
But his mind still didn't want to believe this truth, because that's the way it is with this thing called hope - it clings to the thinnest threads if they could mean a chance, however small it might be.  
And the discovery of the London street boy had changed the situation.  
It was a hint.  
A clue - even if it didn't seem to promise anything good.  
Admittedly, the sight had been incomparably cruel, for it had not required the mind of a detective to see whose hair the boy's delicate fingers had held.  
For a moment John had lost his composure and had had to turn away, knowing that he owed his friend not to panic in front of him.  
It had been terribly difficult for him to show strength, even though weakness had threatened to overpower him.

And once again the world famous detective had surprised him.  
It had taken some time for John to finally realize that his friend had seen not only the confirmation of an unimaginable assumption in the boy's find, but rather a helpful starting point.  
Before John had even been able to even say a word to Sherlock, the eccentric man had already grabbed his trench coat and had rushed out of the door.  
John hadn't had to ask where they were going, he had already known it from the start.  
During their ride on the cab he had only tried to convince his friend to inform Scotland Yard about the current developments - a hopeless undertaking.  
The detective had made it clear that he would deeply refuse to let the 'incompetent hands of this group of foolish uniformed monkeys' destroy possible clues, as he had put it.  
It had cost the doctor some persuasiveness to persuade Sherlock to compromise.  
After a thorough investigation of the situation, John would be sending a text message to Lestrade and thereby give the police a chance to investigate the situation for themselves.  
Sherlock's pride and obstinacy should not impair the clarification, of what had happened, under any circumstances in this case and the detective seemed to be aware of this as well.  
"Sherlock?"  
John looked around the great hall - cursing himself for having allowed his senses to get distracted by his surroundings.  
It had been a mistake to let the Consulting Detective out of his sight, even if only for a fleeting moment, because he had already submerged in a mass of passengers by now.  
'Damn.'  
Hectically, John made his way through the crowd silently hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend's dark curls or long trench coat.  
After all, this was the Kensington Olympia Train Station and not Heathrow.  
How hard could it be to find that famous man again?! 

Very hard - as John found out in the following 35 minutes.  
The doctor had always been able to call an excellent sense of orientation his own, but now he was completely unable to gain an overview.  
All entrances and exits seemed to look the same and the dense crowd on the platforms did not make the search any easier.  
In the end John, frustrated and out of breath, stopped near the kiosk.  
It was hopeless to find Sherlock in this turmoil - which was hard to imagine due to his popularity in this city - but apparently John's fate today. 

"John."  
The hand on his shoulder let the young father turn around in horror.  
"Heavens, Sherlock!  
Where the hell have you been?  
I've been looking everywhere for you?"  
"In the ladies' room."  
This statement immediately silenced John.  
"Don't look at me so dumbfounded, John.  
That really is the most obvious step."  
"Really?"  
John could clearly feel the detective's patience diminishing with every second due to his lack of understanding, but he simply couldn't think of a plausible reason why the detective had had the feeling that the first logical step had been to go to the ladies' room.  
"You'll have to enlighten me, Sherlock."  
The detective's gaze glittered with nervousness.  
Time was pressing and didn't really allow for any delay, but Sherlock knew that his partner would only be useful to him if he had understood the circumstances.  
"Sammy told us that he had lost track of Molly in the concourse, right?"  
"Yes, of course, but why would Molly have gone in there?  
She could have used one of the exits.  
And whoever cut her hair and threw it in the garbage can..."  
"No, she didn't."  
An unusual sharpness lay in Sherlock's words when he interrupted John.  
"For if she had been in the hall for a while or gone through one of the doors soon after - Scotland Yard would already know."  
Slowly the meaning of Sherlock's words sank into John's subconscious.  
The detective was right once again - the description of Molly had surely been passed on to all police stations in the city.  
If Molly had been in the hall for a long time, the security cameras that were installed at every corner of the station would have captured her face.  
The only place where there were no cameras was in the toilets.  
"So, did you find anything?"  
The detective hesitated for a moment.  
It almost seemed as if he was struggling with himself, then he pulled a single brown strand of hair out of his pocket.  
John swallowed hard - it was unmistakable that this strand had also been part of Molly's dense braid.  
"She was there..."  
John couldn't have said it for sure, but in his ears the detective's voice suddenly sounded suffocated and pressed. 

"You're looking for the young woman with the redened eyes."  
The strange voice came out of nowhere and made both men flinch.  
Unnoticed, a haggard little figure had joined them.  
The clothes, shredded and hanging in rags on his body, had probably seen better times and next to him stood an old, rusty shopping cart in which the stranger apparently carried his few possessions.  
The man, whose wrinkled face was covered with dust and soot and whose long, shaggy and - in places - matted hair partly covered the sparkling green eyes, had leant over to them.  
Even if life had obviously hadn't had the best for him in store he seemed to be blessed with an alert mind.  
"The young woman with the red suitcase..."  
He didn't have to talk any further to get the undivided attention of the detective and his partner.  
John first freed himself from his speechlessness.  
"Did you see her, sir?  
When?  
Where?"  
The man laughed hoarsely - the scratchy laugh of a strong smoker - and rubbed his nose with his dirty fingers.  
His flickering gaze was the one of a ne'er-do-well.  
"Well, well, the dear gentlemen would like to get some information from notorious Jimmy..."  
This involuntary informant wouldn't play an easy game on them.  
At once anger began to rise inside John - they had no time for such games, because the sooner they would get the information they needed, the better.  
But before he could express his opinion, Sherlock had already pulled some bills out of his trench coat and placed it in the hands of their counterpart.  
Jimmy, as he had called himself, blinked in surprise - apparently not expecting such a quick response to his unspoken demand - and then hesitantly pocketed the money.  
"Thank you, sir, you're a generous man, aren't you?  
It's a good thing to do something for the general public when it promises such a good reward, isn't it?  
Jimmy laughed hoarsely again, but only moments later Sherlock's ice-cold gaze called him to order.  
The detective didn't seem to be in the mood to take a joke at the moment - even less than usual.  
Her informant obviously was aware of this as well, because he hastily stroked the strands out of his face and then began his report:  
"I saw her here in the station concourse yesterday afternoon, aye?  
She came in here with her red suitcase - man, that thing is a murderous color!  
Impossible to be overlooked.  
Be sure - I know my way around here very well.  
This is my territory!"  
Proud like a dominant gorilla male, Jimmy banged his chest with his fist - causing a small cloud of dust to rise from his holey jacket.  
"Anyway, I've never seen her here before, so I took a good look at her.  
And I also noticed that she was probably not well.  
She was all pale - like a white wall, I swear!"  
Jimmy hesitated for a moment and looked around as if he was an agent on a secret mission who had to live in fear of an attack.  
"She also walked strangely, as if something was hurting her.  
That's why I followed her for a while.  
After all, Jimmy is a real gentleman - he helps a damsel in distress."  
Again a smug smile played around his lips, but seconds later it gave way to a serious facial expression again.  
"And then I noticed it:  
Her eyes.  
They were totally red, as if she had cried very hard.  
Believe me, I know what a woman who suffers looks like.  
And this girl wasn't feeling well at all."  
John could literally feel Sherlock's body tensing again listening to this part of Jimmy's report.  
When the detective questioned the begger further, it wasn't the self-confident baritone of the famous Sherlock Holmes that could be heard, but the voice of a broken man.  
"Where did she go?"  
"That's the strangest thing about it.  
She went to the ladies' room - of course I didn't go after her to this place.  
She was staying in there for a long time.  
Probably for about 20 minutes.  
I know it exactly, I didn't let the door out of my sight!  
I stood right there!"  
Jimmy pointed to a small staircase near the ladies' room.  
"But when she finally came out, I hardly recognized her.  
She had sunglasses on - despite the weather!  
And her beautiful hair - just gone.  
Cut off!  
I could hardly believe my eyes." 

A subconscious inner tension immediately fell away from John.  
Even if it was horrible enough that Molly had decided to change her appearance so drastically, it was comforting to hear that she had done it herself.  
The terrible pressure that had been lying on his chest since Sammy's discovery eased a little and a look across to his friend showed John that Sherlock secretly felt the same way, even though he tried hard not to let it show.  
"Then she went over to track 3 and got on the train.  
This is the train that goes to Stirling.  
I know when every train goes where here, so I can say it for sure." 

"Thank you very much, this information is helpful to us!"  
John was so relieved that he grasped the beggar's dirty hand without hesitation.  
But the next moment he had to rush away again to catch up with his friend, who had just turned away without another word and stormed off.  
John gasped.  
When all this was over, he would have to have a serious word with Sherlock about the rules of making a 'polite conversation'.  
But there was no time for that now.  
"Sherlock, wait!  
Where are you going now?  
We have to call Scotland Yard!"  
"No, John.  
Now we have to get on a train."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark brown eyes of the pensioner widened at the sight offered to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my dears, sorry, this chapter has taken a lot of my time.  
> I hope it was worth the waiting....  
> This part of the story has been on my mind for months and now I have finally been able to put it into words :)  
> Tell me what you think about it! :) Please leave a review!

The dark brown eyes of the pensioner widened at the sight offered to him.  
Never ever had he expected to see this man standing on his doorstep.  
Within a few seconds Molly's father seemed to have been scanned through and categorized by the piercing gaze of his uninvited guest.  
It was obvious that he was an expert of reading the tiny, barely visible signals of body language.  
"Mr. Holmes..."  
The retired teacher was literally speechless.  
He would have expected to see anyone but not this face that was both familiar and strange to him at the same time.  
James Hooper was sure that he had never met him personally, but he remembered that his name had been repeatedly mentioned in the news and the newspaper in connection with government affairs.  
According to the media, he held a high position, which made the fact that this well-known man had now come to a small town like Marlborough all the more unimaginable.  
Only one logical conclusion was obvious, why the older brother of that annoying detective would leave the lobby of the wealthy to visit the sleepy nest that Molly once had used to call her home.  
The visitor from London seemed to be less a guest than a harbinger of disaster.

He couldn't say that he was suprised.  
He had already known it - with fatherly instincts James Hooper had felt that this time there would be no happy ending and now that this man stood in front of him, nothing remained but acceptance.  
Acceptance of a terrible truth untold that would change his life forever.  
Molly's father had been coping with tragedies in the recent years and through that had learned that a collapse would not undo what had happened, an outcry would not be heard and pleading would not turn back the wheel of time.  
And yet - he needed certainty; he had to have his fears confirmed in order to close the chapter whose ending he had inevitably seen coming.  
The pain - one day it would surely break free like a wall of water trapped behind a cracked dam - but today was not that day.  
All emotions he had been feeling earlier that day had vanished.  
The storm, which had raved inside him just a few minutes ago and had called him to action, had fallen silent.  
"What happened?  
A pair of eyes - blue as a icy lake - met his.  
"I don't know."  
That was not the answer the father had expected.  
The picture that had just been fixed in his head again fell into a slant.  
The spark that had seemed to be extinguished flared up once again.  
"You do not know - that means she is not dead? My Molly is alive?  
His counterpart slightly swayed his head.  
"Again - I can't give you a precise answer to your questions."  
He paused for a moment and then cleared his throat - apparently trying to hide his own helplessness - before continuing:  
"But I have the motivation to change this circumstance.  
Would you finally be so kind and invite me in?"  
James Hooper nodded hastily and stepped aside so that the gentleman dressed in the state suit could enter.  
He could not help but think that his guest obviously had a similarly impatient attitude towards his fellow men as his younger brother.  
Without putting the umbrella down, Mycroft Holmes crossed the narrow hallway and headed in the direction he suspected the living room was.  
The alert gaze of the intelligent man registered all the details and his sharp mind instantly ran the collected information through a spiritual grid.  
The wall, littered with countless family photographs - a clear sign of a sentimental reference to the past.  
The furniture, covered in a thin layer of dust - the attempt of a widower to balance the household the way his deceased wife used to.  
The jackets, coats and caps, neatly sorted and hung on the rakes provided for them - apparently an order pedant whose system had been perfected over the years.  
The books on the shelves on the wall, mainly self-help books for coping with mourning, most of them didn't look used - a heavy loss, which obviously had not been reprocessed yet.  
Everything about this house reminded him of Molly.  
It corresponded to her type of furnishings as well as her taste, which had apparently been strongly influenced by her parents, Mycroft silently remarked.  
As soon as he had reached the small living room with the chequered interior, the older Holmes brother let himself sink into an armchair in the corner.  
James Hooper had followed him as quickly as possible and had taken a seat on the couch opposite him.  
He had his hands folded nervously in his lap and looked expectantly at his unexpected guest.  
Offering Mycroft a drink or something out of courtesy didn't even seem to occur to him.  
All too clearly Mycroft felt the distrust that struck him.  
He was only tolerated here because James Hooper hoped to get information from him about the whereabouts of his daughter.  
To Molly's father he was and always would be Mycroft Holmes - the older brother of the detective who had destroyed his daughter's life forever.  
And now he was sitting in front of Mr. Hooper with no good news to tell him.  
Even though Mycroft had acquired the art of diplomatic conversation because of his work over the years, he had never been a man of long speeches and great digressions.  
He preferred a clear, precise and brief exchange of information on a factual level.  
"Unfortunately, I cannot tell you anything about the current whereabouts of your daughter, Mr. Hooper.  
The British Government has not yet found out.  
Nor does the British Government want to give false hope where there is not - it just wants to express it's deepest sympathy for your situation and promise it's full support."  
This obviously rehearsed statement sounded like mockery in the ears of the desperate father.  
How could this emotionally cold patriot dare to come into his house just to present him a verbal condolence card from a government he had always considered worthy to stand up for?!  
Why would he - a father who had lost his only daughter - care about the compassion of those who were sitting at their mahogany desks all day, talking and keeping the cruelty of reality away from them as possible?  
Those who never seemed to get in contact with personal tragedy.  
"You don't know more than I do, do you?"  
All friendliness had disappeared from the voice of the former teacher.  
Nothing had changed - this nightmare had not found it's end yet and anger was slowly rising inside James Hooper.  
But how was this politician to understand his situation?  
His anger mixed with despair.  
"Do you know what it's like to worry about a person who means more to you than anything else in the world?  
Do you know the powerlessness one feels realizing the obvious suffering of this person?  
Have you ever put all your strength into doing something to help that beloved one and yet at the same time you have been knowing that you were doomed to failure?  
James Hooper had talked himself into such a rage that he hadn't even noticed that the stone facade of his opposite had begun to crumble with every word.  
The hardness and coldness had vanished from Mycroft's gaze and the Holmes brother's face had lost it's colour.  
"Your brother is a goddamn psychopath who treats his fellow men as if they were chess pieces!  
He doesn't deserve my daughter's love!"  
"A highly functional sociopath," Mycroft Holmes corrected him quietly and then continued a little louder without giving Molly's father the chance to speak up again.  
"And I must agree with you, Mr. Hooper - my brother doesn't deserve Molly's affection."

Sighing, Mycroft put his umbrella aside and leaned back, folding his hands and putting them against his lips.  
At this exact moment the relationship between the two brothers could not be denied, as James Hooper silently remarked.  
He had watched Sherlock closely from the corner of his eye at the time he had met him in the morgue.  
That unfortunate detective had been sitting at a table in exactly the same position and had been unresponsive for several hours.  
For the down-to-earth man from Marlborough this behaviour had already been very questionable at that time and only Molly's apologetic smile and her timid attempt to protect the detective from her judgmental father had prevented him from declaring Sherlock mad just then.  
But apparently those idiosyncrasies seemed to run in the family.  
For a few minutes Mycroft Holmes didn't say a word and Molly's father had already started to assume that his uninvited guest had faded him out or even forgotten him when he suddenly started talking again.  
"My brother may call many qualities that displease his environment his own - yes,he manages to literally drive it over the edge with them.  
He is ignorant, self-centered, and absolutely unwilling to cooperate.  
When he is engrossed in a case, the world around him stops existing and he would, metaphorically spoken, 'walk over dead bodies' to reach his goal.  
Sherlock has a pedantic nature and it had been like this since he was a child.  
He manages to unsettle, hurt and irreparably damage his fellow men with his words at the same time."  
The older Holmes brother paused briefly and ran his hand over his face.  
"Sherlock has always been different.  
Special.  
Extraordinary.  
I don't want to claim that we had a normal childhood, because it wasn't like that.  
Our parents are simply people from a rural area of England who have been blessed with extraordinary children.  
Or maybe they have been punished with us - that's up to every personal point of view.  
I do not know to what extent you have been informed, but in addition to my younger brother Sherlock, there is also Eurus, Sherlock's older sister."  
James Hooper nodded hesitantly.  
"Yes, I was informed of the recent events at Sheringford by Scotland Yard."  
"Then I think you'll be aware that our family relationships are quite complicated."  
Again, silence spread between the men until Mycroft finally rose and walked over to the window facing the large garden of the Hoopers'.  
"Sherlock didn't have an easy childhood.  
There had been signs of a pronounced cognitive ability from the start - similar to my person.  
But unlike me, he has been struggling much more with the art of social interaction throughout his life.  
Although we both had little to do with our fellow human beings - their lack of intellect is extremely annoying, by the way- it has always been Sherlock who got himself into trouble because of it.  
He simply didn't know how to put his opinion aside for the benefit of others.  
He couldn't keep his mouth shut.  
My parents have simply been overstrained with him - they have loved him, within the bounds of their possibilities, but they have never been able to understand his way of seeing the world.  
They thought it was the peculiarities of an unformed character.  
Not me - I could see who my brother was.  
And above all - what.  
A genius."  
When he stopped, James Hooper looked up.  
He hadn't even noticed that he had been staring at his hands for the past few minutes.  
Although Mycroft Holmes didn't face him, Molly's father could clearly see that the proud man now looked broken.  
The authority Mycroft had radiated when he had entered the house, had disappeared.  
"You may not believe me - but I've been so proud of him.  
Always.  
He regularly drove me crazy, of course, but for his sake I gladly took on the blows of the neighboring children who should have struck HIM for his thoughtless words.  
I also spent my time in the countless hours of detention as a punishment for allegedly blowing up a table in the chemistry hall out of scientific interest.  
I hadn't even touched that stupid table."  
By now James Hooper almost carried a smile on his lips.  
He had never thought that Mycroft Holmes would reveal such personal details from their childhood.  
He had expected him to be more like his younger brother.  
"You've never told him, haven't you?" he noted hesitantly.  
Slowly the older Holmes brother shook his head without turning his gaze away from the window.  
His voice suddenly sounded very sad.  
"He must never know.  
It would destroy the image of me he has created in his head forever."  
Before Mr. Hooper could ask any more, Mycroft continued.  
"For him I am the calculating, emotionless and cold-hearted big brother who only cares about him because he promised our mother years ago."  
"But you didn't do that."  
"Of course not- in her eyes I was always a pure disappointment.  
Eurus and Sherlock have been her favorites and still are today."  
"Why did you do that? Why did you lie because of him?  
I doubt that this man treats you with more benevolence than anyone else!"  
A fleeting shrug.  
"He is my little brother and blood is probably thicker than water, I suppose."  
James Hooper perceived the pain in the voice of the iron man.  
It was obvious that these shadows of his past and present were tearing him apart whatever he said.  
Yet he couldn't understand why Mycroft Holmes was revealing all these background stories to him.  
As if he had read his thoughts, Mycroft started speaking again:  
"I am aware that the whole world considers my brother to be a madman who simply doesn't care about people's feelings, and believe me - there have been times when I've thought the same way.  
But I know that this is neither his intention nor has it ever been.  
I am aware of how difficult it is to forgive him again and again and to be rejected and humiliated by him for countless times.  
I have lived through the temptation to turn away from him as so many otherd have done before.  
My brother never really had anything remotely like a friendship - not until he met John Watson.  
And I didn't let that doctor out of my sight - I wanted to make sure that that man didn't hurt my brother, because he's suffered too often because he's just the way he is.  
And if there is nobody else who believes in him, then I'll do it in secret!"  
With every single word Mycroft had spoken louder and had lost the control over his emotions more and more.  
Only when his look fell at the unsettled and at the same time helpless expression on James Hooper's face did he call himself to order, gathered himself briefly and then continued more calmly.  
"And now I'm not the only one anymore, as it seems.  
Besides John, this Inspector Lestrade - or whatever his name may be - and Mr. Watson's deceased wife must have discovered his qualities.  
They and, of course, Molly.  
She has taken him into her heart right from the start - your lovely daughter!  
I know you won't believe me, but I've feared for her welfare as well and  
have hoped that he wouldn't harm her soul.  
But she has gotten too close to him and had to experience the pain.  
She had to suffer - just like you now.  
I know your pain."  
Tears of despair shone on James Hooper's cheeks.  
What did this man think he knew of his suffering?  
He wanted to chase him out the door, tell him to take care of his own affairs and not pretend to be able to empathize with something that he obviously couldn't sympathize.  
Cynically the rhetorical questions came over his lips.  
"Do you know what it is like to love a child?  
This is a pure, unspent love that transcends all boundaries.  
Do you have any idea what it's like to worry about your child?  
What agonies you go through when you think about what the future might hold for your little angel?  
Do you know how you suffer yourself when your child is ill?"  
"Yes, to all that." 

James Hooper would have expected any reaction, but not this one.  
The Holmes brother's voice was little more than a whisper as he continued.  
"Yes, I know what it's like to worry about one's child.  
I am aware of how much your heart bleeds when you see the tears on this small face - unable to change it.  
And if my little one would be in Molly's situation, I wouldn't hesitate to kill who caused that pain to her."  
Molly's father raised his eyebrows in wonder. According to his memories, Molly had told him about Mycroft Holmes, but never mentioned that he had children.  
Rather, he had suspected, according tohis daughter's reports, that Mycroft was more likely to be a man-on-man kind of guy.  
But these words Mycroft Holmes had just spoken had undoubtedly been the words of a father, James Hooper was sure of.  
"You have a daughter? How old is she?  
"She has just turned four."  
"Forgive my astonishment, I just haven't thought of you as a father so far.  
I'd rather thought that you are..."  
Embarrassed, he broke off in the middle of the sentence.  
"Thought I am homosexual? Yes, most people do, including my parents, as I had to find out."  
A slightly amused smile played around Mycroft's lips.  
"Forgive me, but judging by what has been reported about you in the media in recent years, I wouldn't have expected you to have a family."  
The older Holmes brother had turned away from the window and now stood in front of the wall, which was filled with numerous photos showing scenes of the Hooper family's life together.  
His fingers glided gently over a picture showing Molly as a little girl in her father's arm.  
"That was one of those mistakes that can't be easily made undone.  
A one-night stand, as you might call it these days."  
He sighed quietly and turned to the window before speaking again.  
"It may seem to the outside that someone like me stands above such primitive things as intimate physical contact - and that's the way it usually is.  
But there are also moments when I need the closeness of a person, just like everyone else."  
James Hooper could see how difficult it was for him to say these words. If he was just a little bit like his younger brother, verbal self-reflection was not one of his strengths.  
"Anyway, she got pregnant and gave me a choice.  
She left it up to me to decide what would happen to this child."  
Mycroft again turned away from the window and let himself sink back into the armchair.  
There wasn't anything left of his usual self-confidence.  
Molly's father saw the tears that were glittering in the eyes of his counterpart.  
"I am not a father.  
I've never wanted to be one and couldn't imagine it.  
But to end a life before it has even begun - I could not make this decision.  
And when I held her in my arms for the first time after her birth..."  
"There is nothing more beautiful!" James Hooper ended his sentence with a soft smile.  
"For the first time in my life there was someone besides Sherlock worth fighting for.  
Everything could have been so perfect, but..."  
Mycroft quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand in a desperate attempt to preserve his composure and prevent the dam from breaking.  
This emotional part of him seemed to be completely unknown to Mycroft himself.  
He was unable to continue, which is why James Hooper took the floor again.  
"Forgive my interruption, but what does all this have to do with my daughter?"  
Sherlock's brother took a few deep breaths, then looked up at the former teacher.  
The eyes of the two fathers met and for a moment the same fear could be seen in them.  
"My daughter's mother died in a car accident about three years ago.  
From one second to the next my child had become a half-orphan and I had become a lone parent.  
I.... I didn't cope too well with that.  
I did my best to be there for her, but sometimes it felt like I couldn't go on any more.  
One night it was so bad - I just couldn't calm her down and I was so desperate, so I called the only person I thought could help me - your daughter.  
Molly was a support in my darkest hours for me and for my little one - without her aid I would have given up long ago.  
And she has kept our secret - to this day."  
Molly's father stood up in astonishment.  
"Excuse me.... You mean that Molly is the only one knowing about the existence of your child?  
"To this day - yes, that's how it is."  
James Hooper shook his head in disbelief.  
"I don't understand that. Why?"  
Once again Mycroft sighed heavily and then reached for his umbrella.  
"You are aware of my position in the government, right?  
You also know my younger brother and I am sure you are aware that both of us have made ourselves a considerable number of enemies over the years. Because of his clients, my dear brother often gets in contact with the scum of mankind and is often threatened by it.  
Although Sherlock may seem heartless and cold to others, Mr. Hooper, I can assure you that he is unconditionally loyal to the people close to him and would die for them if necessary.  
It's just a matter of finding the right pressure point.  
That I am one, as well as John and your daughter - I am aware of that.  
Because even if my brother doesn't love me, he still wouldn't sacrifice me.  
It came clear to me in Sheringford.  
Besides, I am now a father.  
And a father would do anything to prevent his own child from falling into the line of fire or even becoming a potential pressure point.  
She should never be drawn into all this. She is so small, so innocent..."  
Molly's father swallowed.  
He suddenly could understand this man so well.  
An hour earlier, he had mistaken him for an emotionless and heartless academic who didn't care about his environment.  
Now another man was sitting opposite him.  
Exhausted, broken, marked by life just as they all were.  
A loving brother and father to whom the welfare of his loved ones, even if he did not like to call them so, seemed to be more important than his own fate.  
"What about your daughter? Where is she now?  
"She is safe, housed in a house outside London.  
She enjoys the best care and that's how it should remain."  
A thoughtful silence spread throughout the room and was broken only after a long time by James Hooper's soft voice.  
"Why did you come here?  
Certainly not just to tell me the story of your life. What does all of this have to do with my daughter and your brother?"  
Mycroft's face was painfully distorted when he answered:  
"Even if you can't - I trust my brother.  
Because although he can be unpredictable and cruel with his words, something truly good is hidden inside him.  
Burried deep down.  
Life hasn't been good to him.  
All the fantasy, the friends and the optimism - time has stolen it from him and has made him what he is today.  
With a child's instinct he began to isolate himself more and more from the world and withdraw into his own thought palace when he was just a boy, and there was nothing I could do about it.  
I had to watch in silence as he has drifted further and further away from all emotions over time.  
Believe me - I fought but I lost.  
I can hardly reach him now, he is too far away.  
But your daughter, Molly, she could succeed.  
There is something about her that touches him, even if he cannot admit it to himself yet.  
Even if it doesn't seem so - besides John it was her who has been keeping him on the ground for all these years.  
What has happened now - she doesn't deserve it, but it was inevitable."  
James Hooper's lips trembled.  
"He did this to her. He broke her.  
He took her away from me!  
"I know. And I can't say if he will ever be able to make it up to her.  
I pray to a God in whom I do not believe that it will be like this".  
Mycroft Holmes had risen and had stepped to the door, but before he left the room, he turned to Molly's father once more.  
"He would sacrifice himself without hesitation for the people he loves.  
He would fight for them till the end.  
And even if he may not be aware of it yet - he loves your daughter.  
In the end he may be the only one who will be able to save my daughter.  
Maybe he is the only chance to find your daughter.  
And for him.....For him, Molly could be his last hope ."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hadn't stopped once to look back.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I'm sorry it took so long. I've been stuck in bed with flu for about two weeks now and I was feeling so bad at times that I couldn't think of writing :( Please leave the review :)

She hadn't stopped once to look back.   
No moment had she hesitated.   
She hadn't slowed down either, even though walking seemed to become even harder with every step.   
She pulled the red suitcase behind her, no - she rather lugged it along the ground.   
One of the wheels must have broken down miles ago.   
He could see the sweat shining on her forehead.   
Her now chin-length hair was sticking to her cheeks.   
He could see that she seemed to be at the end of her strength.   
But neither did she stop, nor hestitate.   
He admired her.   
She was different from everyone before her.   
Something told him that she would surprise him somehow.   
The sun was already low and the cold, rough wind of the sea caught the hood of his jacket, which he had pulled deep into his face.   
A crowd of seagulls shrieked above him, dancing in the gusts of an approaching storm.   
Everything indicated an impending disaster.   
The drum roll before the curtain opens.   
He didn't pull a face, just waited motionless and followed her with his eyes.   
If she had just turned around once - perhaps she would have noticed the reflection, caused by the glass of his binoculars in the setting sun.   
But she wouldn't do that - he was sure of it.   
Once you're on your way to the guillotine , you won't turn back.   
He had to know.   
He still thought of himself to be safe.  
Just like her.   
The prey had not yet scent the hunter, had not yet perceived the danger.   
But it would not stay this way.   
In the station concourse in London he almost had lost sight of her.   
Here and now - it was a different story.   
In this deserted area he could see her red suitcase from afar.   
But she would also rather recognize his presence as well.   
The landscape, covered with lean grasses and moss and stretched in gentle hills all around - no tree, no shrub offering camoulflage.   
He could not immerse himself in the crowd and become invisible like the ghost he could be in a big city. 

Again he lifted his binoculars to his eyes.   
The path she walked along seemed to become narrower and narrower and more impassable.   
The road that was passable for cars could not be seen any more from where he was standing.   
This was where he had left the car he had rented earlier this day.   
He had been able to easily keep an eye on her on the train without fearing that she would see him, but he had not dared to get on the same bus.   
She should not become aware of his presence yet.   
He still wanted to watch her, he enjoyed it to see her slowly dissolve.   
Because that was what was happening to her.  
The longer his gaze rested on her, the clearer it seemed to him:   
She was like a ghost.   
Invisible to all the others.   
He could not help but feel pity for her. 

'I know your pain, my dear.   
I know the agonies of an existence in the shadow.   
A flickering candle that no one wants to admire'. 

He had seen the tears on her cheeks in the reflection of the train window and had automatically known that this feeling was not new to her.   
Rather it had always been her constant companion.   
He smiled softly.  
She fascinated him, attracted him like moths are drawn to the light.   
A soul mate, a suffering soul like him- his queen.   
And as such he would treat her.   
He would give her what she needed.   
At the thought of it he was flooded by the excitement that washed over him every time, shortly before the attack.   
But this time it was different than usual - more intense, more overwhelming.   
He could hardly control himself anymore.   
His instincts almost blinded his rational mind, but he was a good hunter and as such he would keep his cool.   
He could have attacked long ago.   
Nobody would have noticed it out here, far away from any civilization.   
Not exactly the most suitable stage for an artist of his size - and yet a tempting change.   
No one would disturb his game out here and he would be able to take as much time as possible.   
He was curious as well - eager to know where she would lead him.   
That she was, despite her desolate condition and the exhausting journey she had been through, still able to stay on her feet at all, surprised him more and more.   
When she had gotten off the train in Stirling, he had thought she had reached her destination.   
He had been wrong.  
Even though she surely hadn't been to Stirling regularly, it was obvious that she was familiar with the streets of the small Scottish town.   
He had noticed the short, happy glint shining in her eyes - like a short smile a long lost friend deserves.   
Yet she hadn't stayed for long in Stirling.   
She had finally turned purposefully into a side street and had entered a property that looked overgrown.   
For a brief moment he had been worried that he maybe had missed his chance when she had disappeared from his field of vision.  
But after just a few minutes she had come out of the adjoining garden again and had put something in her pocket.   
What it had been he hadn't beeen able to say.   
Afterwards she had gone straight to the bus station.   
That had been the time when he had realized that he had to take care of a possibility to follow her as not to lose sight of her.   
What followed had been an long drive via Inverness to Milovaig.   
From this lonely and deserted village she had continued on foot.   
In this area one met at most some lonely tourists searching for the wild romantic idyll of the Scottish Highlands - but even that was not likely at this time of year.   
The harsh storms and cold westerly winds of the ocean scared even the toughest of them off.   
His eyes widened.   
In the blink of an eye she had dissapeared from his gaze.  
Where had she gone?  
Slowly he continued on his way, following her along the small path that now made a sharp bend.   
Cautiously, silently, with great dexterity, he moved on.   
The stones under his feet were damp from the spray carried by the wind blowing from the sea.   
She had to know her way very well to be aware of it's pitfalls.   
A little further, one more metre...  
He looked around restlessly, sniffing like a wolf on the trail of the lamb.   
The path now fell steeply downhill.   
In front of him was the edge of a small abyss.   
The entrance to a bay, hardly visible from the distance.  
A hundred yards away the roaring sea whipped against the steep cliffs of the coast.   
In the shade of the rocks, a small hut nestled itself against the by the water darkly discoloured rock.   
And that's exactly where the red suitcase was moving to. 

The stage was prepared.   
But the lights would not go out now- the final act had not yet begun.   
First the hunter would have to familiarize himself with his new hunting ground.   
She would no longer leave here and he would return -sooner than later.  
And when he would come back, she would be waiting for him.   
Would welcome him like an old acquaintance.   
And with a cruel smile on his face, death turned away.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The window panes were fogged from the inside and allowed only a limited view of the passing outside world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review :)

The window panes were fogged from the inside and allowed only a limited view of the passing outside world.   
The oppressive heat, which mixed with the salty smell of sweat and stale air, did not make the ride any more pleasant.   
John sighed softly.   
Although a Thursday morning - no bank holiday or vacation - might not seemed to be the most common time to travel, the wagon was filled to capacity.   
Most passengers had boarded the train in London and from then with every station the nummer seemed to have increased.   
The former army doctor and his tall friend had been lucky enough to get hold of one of the last free seats.   
It was questionable whether they would keep them, though, considering the many passengers, crowding in the small corridor, who occasionally included pensioners who seemed to be too weak to stand on their own two feet.  
John had already offered his seat several times without hesitation, while Sherlock had fixed his eyes on the blinded windows and the invisible world behind them.   
He probably wouldn't even have noticed if someone had collapsed in the narrow corridor between the rows of seats, John remarked with irritation.   
The tensed atmosphere emanating from the crowd didn't exactly have a positive effect on his mood. 

With screeching brakes, the train came to a halt again, but John couldn't tell which station they had reached in the meantime.   
The time seemed to pass by agonizingly slowly and each minute seemed to expand to an eternity.   
Their journey had only just begun and the way to Stirling was long. It would take them at least six hours, assuming they were spared further delays caused by repair work on the tracks.  
Instinctively John closed his eyes and hoped that the train wouldn't get more crowded.   
The girl, who was standing to his right, had by now come so close to him that he was able to 'enjoy' every song on her playlist as well.   
Right now Katy Perry was screaming her hit "Roar" at a destructive volume into the student's auditory canal.   
John was hardly able to hold back his medical instincts, which told him to inform this future-to-be hearing impaired individual about her wrong doing.   
Contrary to many of his peers, John Watson took no pleasure in letting people run into their doom hoping to create customers of the future.   
Nevertheless, it seemed advisable to him at this moment to concentrate solely on the goal of their journey and the implementation of their plan.   
Their plan.   
To be honest, John didn't even know exactly what their plan was.   
His friend had left him unknowing once again.   
After they had boarded the train and had questioned the conductor if he had seen Molly, Sherlock had purposefully aimed for the last free seats and had sunk wordlessly onto the dismounted seat.  
That the train conductor had been able to help them had truly surprised John.   
Admittedly, he had been at a loss when they had been asked about the reason of their interest.  
Apparently, the two strange men who inquired about a woman travelling alone had made of the dutiful railway employee suspicious.   
But even before John had been able to explain the situation, Sherlock had harshly intervened and had informed the conductor in a few sober sentences that the woman was a mentally ill cousin of his who had once again taken flight in order to escape therapy.   
John had been surprised by the ease with which the detective's lie had left his lips, which was nothing compared to the following moments when Sherlock had told the name of his lost cousin to a very concerned train conductor:   
Harriet Watson.   
For a brief moment, John's facial features had derailed.   
He would not have believed his friend had the audacity to misuse his sister's name.   
But it was not the right time to have a discussion with the stubborn man about basic rules of behaviour towards his fellow men, which had been why John had left the incident uncommented.   
Convinced by Sherlock's words, the friendly train conductor, driven by compassion and understanding, had actually remembered the woman with the red suitcase and also had known to say that she had actually purchased a train ticket to Stirling from him.   
This knowledge had made the search way easier, of course, and it finally had provided a clear point of reference.   
A direction.   
A glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.  
So while Sherlock had immediately retired to his thought palace, John had first informed Greg Lestrade by telephone about their latest discovery and reported on the testimonies. Lestrade seemed to be both relieved and encouraged by the hints they had uncovered, for he promised to inform the police in Stirling and the surrounding area immediately and to set off himself today to support them personally in their search.   
Sherlock had obviously been too absorbed in his thoughts to be outraged by the fact that the police would "interfere" in their work once again.   
John then had called Mrs Hudson to inquire about Rosie and inform theirs landlady of the situation.   
The good-natured woman had immediately assured him that he had nothing to worry about and that Rosie could remain in her care as long as necessary.   
John was more than grateful for her help.   
The situation was tense enough and having a one-year-old with him was the last thing he needed right now. 

John yawned extensively.   
The events of the last two days had strained his strength and the thoughts in his head were causing him a headache: The terrible impressions from Molly's apartment, the desperate search and an uncomfortable gut feeling that didn't seem to want to leave him, made him feel uncomfortable.   
He would close his eyes - just for a moment.  
A minimal pause to revive the exhausted energies.  
A few minutes of peace.

When the train started to move again with a jerk, John's eyes snapped open again.   
A little confused and still a little bit drowsy, he looked around the train compartment and was surprised to find that they were almost the only passengers in the wagon now.   
He must have slept longer than he initially thought.   
Tired, he rubbed his hands over his eyes.   
"Where are we now, Sherlock?"   
No answer.   
A look to his side revealed to John that his friend still hadn't left his trance-like state.   
John could not prevent it - suddenly a rage rose inside him.   
A rage at the motionless man to his left, who simply faded him and the rest of the world out if he felt like it.   
The man who didn't think it necessary to tell his fellow men about his actions, even if they were directly concerned.   
The man who had been the biggest asshole walking on God's great earth, to this innocent, kind-hearted woman in the past few years.   
The man who had broken her heart and who had undoubtedly been aware of it.   
He at least hoped so. 

John swallowed.   
The heat had risen from his belly to his head.   
Sure - he knew this was probably the worst time to read his friend the riot act, but the inner voice - so long restrained - would no longer remain silent.   
"What have you done?"  
John's voice was icy, nothing more than a whisper, but the effect occured immediate.   
The detective's shoulders tightened and he flinched, hardly noticeably.   
For a brief moment John thought his friend would ignore his words once more, but then the deep baritone broke the silence between them.   
Quiet and pressed, clearly audible struggling for control.   
" Drop the topic, John."   
"No."  
Sherlock's eyes parted from the window and wandered over to his seat neighbor in sheer disbelief.   
John's reaction seemed to affront the detective.   
Normally John had an excellent instinct for when it was not advisable to talk to him, but now the doctor seemed to deliberately defy.   
Almost defiantly, the blue eyes of his counterpart gleamed at him.   
"No, Sherlock. I will not remain silent now. I must know it- why?"   
Red spots had appeared on the detective's cheeks - a clear warning not to go any further, but John didn't back down.   
Not anymore.   
Not now.   
"What have you done to her?"   
The detective's lips had become a narrow line and John could feel that Sherlock was close to lose his temper.   
But this one time John wouldn't give him an opportunity, he wouldn't let himself be unsettled and rejected by the behaviour of his counterpart.   
That, at least, he owed to his long friendship with Molly Hooper.   
"Since I've met Molly, her intentions have always been clear, Sherlock.   
I know you don't know how to cope with human emotions - that you would even call them annoying - but tell me if I am wrong about this:   
They don't leave you completely cold.   
If that were so, then - by god - would you have the kindness to explain to me the reason for your outbreak in Sherringford?   
If I should be wrong, tell me that Molly's feelings don't matter to you, that she means nothing to you and that you followed Eurus' rules just for the sake of the game.   
Tell me and I will no longer question your behaviour.   
But even if you think it is this way, Sherlock - believe me, I've been by your side for long enough to know that you're not the cold-hearted, machine like man many think you are.   
I can not believe that.   
I don't want to believe that.   
Call me unrealistic.   
Call me foolish.   
Call me naive.   
But I know the man hiding behind a facade of logic and reason.   
Tell me that my feeling is not deceiving me.   
Tell me - isn't Molly's fate important to you?"  
John's eyes hadn't left his friend's face for a single moment while talking and accordingly he could watch the change in his friend's expression.   
Like breaking ice after a long, cold winter brings the rushing river back to the surface, suppressed emotions were becoming more and more visible on Sherlock's face.   
"If there is one thing I can assure you, it is that Molly's fate is indeed important to me, John. It's a case to solve."   
Once again he turned away from John and fixed his gaze on the outside world rushing by.   
He would not have this conversation now.   
But John left him no choice - too driven by his own despair and worries for Molly.   
"You selfish, unfeeling bastard."   
The words had left his mouth faster than he could have prevented.   
While saying what his anger had led him to say, the former army doctor already realized that he had gone too far.   
That he had also unconsciously raised his voice against his friend became clear to John as he looked into the many dumbfounded faces that had turned toward them.   
Even the girl, who had now gotten a place a few rows behind them, had removed one of their noisy earplugs and was now staring at the two men with blatant curiosity.   
John swallowed and immediately lowered his head.   
He hadn't planed to become the focus of public attention, but Sherlock's evasive response had put him in a rage.  
He didn't dare look at Sherlock. His words had hurt his friend deeply, he could clearly feel that. 

Again the train stopped at a station and John registered a quick movement to his left.   
Without saying a word to him Sherlock stood up from his seat, pulled the scarf tighter around his neck and pushed himself past John towards the exit.   
John was so surprised by the fact that his travel partner had obviously just changed his plans that he was unable to react.   
Undecided he stayed in his seat and only when the train doors began to close again with a mechanical hissing did the motionless doctor realize what was happening.   
Hectically he jumped up and stumbled after his friend, out on a deserted arrival platform.   
The detective had already turned to walk and hurried down the steps of an underpass.   
John cursed quietly and began to run, hoping to catch up with his friend before he would lose sight of him.   
At the other end of the underpass, there were a few houses that looked kind of uninhabited, and a narrow country road that, according to the signs, seemed to lead to major towns a few miles away.   
Sherlock headed for one direction without waiting for his former roommate.   
"Sherlock, damn it. Wait for me!"   
Any shouting was ineffective - the tall man didn't slow down his steps but seemed to get even faster.   
After a few hundred metres John came to an halt, panting.  
He was already exhausted now and the idea of running after his partner for the next few miles wasn't very motivating.   
"Sherlock Holmes!"   
He made one last attempt.   
But the detective walked further and further away from him.   
It was obvious that he did not want John's presence right now.   
Seething with rage, John followed him with his eyes for a moment, then he turned around and returned to the train station.   
If Sherlock preferred to continue on his own from now on, he wouldn't stop him.   
Countless times he had followed him pretty everywhere without complaining, but now the point was reached where John could no longer forgive the detective for his ruthless behavior.   
He was tired of acting as the chess piece for the famous man - playing a supporting role of a genius who treated the people closest to him as if their existence was not relevant to the further course of the story.   
Supporting roles like Molly Hooper was one.   
John fleetingly wiped his eyes.   
Angry tears had appeared on his cheeks.   
He would never understand.   
She was such a lovable, precious woman and deserved to be loved.   
Why couldn't or wouldn't this deluded man see that?! 

The low rumbling of an approaching train ripped him from his thoughts.   
Tired, John rose from the bench he had been sitting on.   
The train would bring him back to London.   
From there he would continue to support Lestrade in his investigations.   
The train doors opened with a mechanical hiss.   
Just as John was about to climb up the stairs, he felt a hand on his shoulder.   
"John..."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without hesitation the detective rushed forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has been a while but here we go. Hope you like it. Please leave a comment :)

Without hesitation the detective rushed forward.   
The harsh Scottish wind whipped his face like a riding crop and swallowed the dull cries of the former army doctor, who was desperately trying to catch up with his partner.   
But Sherlock didn't give a single thought to it - refusing to slow down or even look back. Cold anger had taken possession of him and made him flee.   
His friend's words resounded like an indelible echo in his ears.   
'You selfish, unfeeling bastard.'   
Over the years Sherlock had been gotten used to call various, unflattering titles his own, but to hear such harsh words from his otherwise so good-natured comrade, had hit the detective deeper than he wanted to admit to himself.   
John had always been at his side, had offered his unconditional loyalty to him - even in the darkest hours.   
It could not be denied that he had been the one who had contributed to the change that had taken place in the character of the detective over the past months and years.   
And although Sherlock had never spoken it out loud to him, he had always held full trust and respect for John's words, even though he had known how to hide this fact from the world's eyes.   
John's opinion was worth its weight in gold.   
The doctor might not been able to immediately notice the small details and hidden clues, but he knew how to interpret the feelings of his fellow men as Sherlock had never been capable of.   
And the very judgment he never had wanted to hear, had just left his friend's lips.   
That judgement whose truth the detective became more and more aware of and which seemed to drive him mad.   
Several times, in the last few days, he had tried to retreat into the security of his mind palace, but it felt as if the way there had been irretrievably blocked.   
He could no longer access it, no matter how hard he tried.   
Rather, it seemed as if the scaffolding, the walls, the structure of what he had been building for decades had cracked in the past few days.   
The things he had been so sure of were no longer in their place.   
Everything had become disorderly - a disorderliness whose extent he couldn't bear.   
Logic, structure, rational thoughts had been the cornerstone of this extraordinary man's existence as long as he could think.  
They had been the house of cards of which he had been sure it would shelter him from the raging storm of the outside world.   
But nothing was as it had been before now and his unmistakable feeling told him that it would never be the same again.   
A wall - laboriously built as a protection against any feelings that could manipulate or influence his precious mind - had been torn down and razed to the ground.  
The heavy winds had blown the cards of his house away.

At first he had tried to blame Eurus.   
But little by little the illusion had given way to the truth.   
Sherlock had never been good at admitting his guilt and being all the more adept at accusing someone else for it.   
Mycroft had even once mocked that Sherlock would rather probably impute a crime to the flies on the wall than admitting that he had made a mistake himself.   
Back then, the older Holmes brother had only earned a deadly look for this comment, but now the detective could no longer reject the accusation.   
Failure had always been a hated fear for the tall man.   
His distinct intellect allowed no weaknesses.   
However, it had never been the opinion of others that had worried him, but rather his own expectations of himself, which he had always wanted to live up to at all costs.   
Even when he had been just a child this quality had displeased his fellow men, which was not surprising.   
In Sherlock's eyes they had simply been too stupid and underexposed to even think about them.   
This attitude had been consolidated over the years and had only changed when John Watson had entered Sherlock's life.   
At least that's what he had assumed.   
After all that had happened within the last few days - he wasn't so sure any more.  
Could it be possible that it hadn't been just John who had opened the detective's eyes to the unknown world of emotions?!   
Could it be that there had been someone else, too?   
Someone, who had always been there?  
Someone invisible? Someone humble?  
Someone who had quietly hoped to be heard?!   
All these years Sherlock had put that whispering voice in the back of his head aside and had declared it null and void, but now it seemed as if it no longer accepted to be kept silent.   
The whisper had turned into a restrained call that seemed to swell further with every hour of Molly's disappearance, into an unmistakable cry.   
And yet he did not seem to understand the words the voice tried to say.   
He wanted to but he could not.   
The rampart built for years, albeit fragile, still tried to keep it away.   
But more and more it became clear to the world-famous man:   
It had not been Eurus who had torn down the walls.   
She had merely put the hammer into his hand and forced him to strike the first blow.   
She had tried to break him and now she had finally succeeded.   
Not in Sheringford, but right here and now.   
A painful punishment for something he had to attribute to himself.  
Sherlock accelerated his steps even further - just as if he could escape what was blocking his mind and torturing him.   
Fear.   
Pure fear.   
And the knowledge that his friend's words might be right.   
John's outburst had been fierce, contrary to his otherwise good-natured character, but Sherlock had understood why he had acted like this.   
His friend had only spoken out loud what Sherlock secretly had been blaming himself for.   
But the detective hadn't shown it to his partner, hadn't been able to agree with him.   
His pride had once again forbidden him to do so.   
His stupid, stubborn pride and the knowledge that he could not lose control in front of all these people on the train.   
So he had chosen the last resort:   
He had taken flight.   
He had sincerely hoped that John would be too angry to follow him, but his friend's loyalty had proved itself once again.   
Sherlock knew John wanted to confront him with his thoughts, but he didn't feel like he could face such an interrogation right now, so he wouldn't give him a chance for that.   
He wouldn't even have known what to answer to his questions.  
How to answer something one could not even understand oneself?   
All these emotions were completely new to the strict man who had been living and acting according to his own rules of conduct for all his life.   
He coulnd't understand this indescribable feeling within him that caused him physical pain for no apparent reason and took his breath away again and again.   
The road before Sherlock's eyes began to blur.   
There it was again:   
The suddenly occurring swindle that had haunted him regularly from the moment he had entered the bathroom of Molly's apartment.   
Panting, the detective stopped.   
As he fleetingly drove his hand over his face, he could feel the moisture wetting his skin. The tears seemed to have become his constant companion over the past few days.   
Although he had never shed a single tear before - the dam now seemed to be finally broken.   
He could not control it any more - the thoughts and feelings haunted him like evil spirits and showed no mercy to his soul. 

Molly.   
A broken sob made the shoulders of the man, who had otherwise been so strong, tremble.   
Suddenly it didn't matter to him if someone would see him in this state.   
He no longer cared that it would change the image people had of him.   
All the things that had determined his life had become unimportant within a single second.   
Molly.   
At that moment she was all that mattered.   
The eyes of the detective wandered to the sky, where dark mountain-like clouds crowded close together.  
A not to be underestimated harbinger of a violent storm that would hit the island state in the near future.   
Where could she possibly be?   
Sherlock had rarely been so helpless regarding a case and never before had he been so badly affected by it.   
His Molly.   
Without noticing it he had probably always seen her that way.   
She had always been there for him and had never refused him a wish.   
She had showed acceptance for all his moods - even more than John.   
She had never treated him impatiently or disparagingly.   
No, rather she had always praised him as no one else could.   
When had been the last time he had he thanked her for her help?!   
For her kindness?!  
Had he ever done this?!  
He couldn't remember.   
Everybody - and certainly she herself - had always thought that she was not importance to him.   
But she was.   
She had always been.   
He had only really become aware of it after she had supported him with the implementation of his suicide plan.   
She had been useful to him - no question.   
But there had been more.   
He had tried to deny it, to turn away once again and had managed to nip in the bud what had fought its way to the light.   
Only when she had announced her engagement to this loser had the voice inside him, believed to be dead, reappeared.   
It would have been a lie to claim that he wasn't secretly happy when the relationship ended.   
The thorn in his eye had disappeared again.   
Why he had felt this way - he had not been able to understand it himself.   
But in the last few days that self-knowledge had gradually come to light.   
The voice inside him.  
The voice of his heart.   
So long held as a prisoner behind chains it now demanded answers. 

Molly.   
She was all that mattered now. 

Sherlock turned around.   
How far he had been walking along the street he could not tell anymore.   
John had disappeared.   
After a while he obviously had given up and had returned to the train station.   
In the distance the thunder of an approaching train could be heard.   
Sherlock began to run.   
His steps grew bigger and bigger.   
The cold wind was burning in his eyes, but the tall detective didn't slow his speed.   
He almost stumbled down the steps of the underpass.   
Just as the train doors opened with a mechanical hiss, John came into his field of vision.   
As if by himself, his hand reached for the shoulder of his long-time friend.   
"John."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost in thought, the inspector sipped his tea and wondered once more what the art of brewing a liquid, enriched with plant residues, was. Whenever he tried to make himself an enjoyable cup of tea he miserabely failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry it took me so long :(

Lost in thought, the inspector sipped his tea and wondered once more what the art of brewing a liquid, enriched with plant residues, was. Whenever he tried to make himself an enjoyable cup of tea he miserabely failed.  
It could not be denied that Mrs Hudson had perfected this skill over time.  
Lestrade closed her eyes with a soft sigh.   
The past few days had been exhausting.   
It was obvious that his job kept him busy around the clock, but this situation was not comparable to a normal day fighting the crimes on London`s streets.   
During his career at Scotland Yard, the inspector had been confronted with the darkest side of human nature, but even if no case was like the other, one inevitably developed a certain routine over time.   
It could often take weeks, if not months, from an incoming emergency call to the arrest of the perpetrator.   
An alert eye and clear mind, combined with stoic patience - a necessary condition for a good police man.   
However, if a crime involved a relative, a loved one or a close friend - it always felt as if the cards had been reshuffled.   
It was almost impossible to keep an emotional distance, not even for the most experienced colleagues at Scotland Yard.   
Greg Lestrade placed the teacup on the small coffee table in front of him.   
On the floor, barely a metre away from him and surrounded by stuffed animals and building blocks, John Watson's little daughter was sitting, babbeling cheerfully.   
Mrs. Hudson was once again taking care of the little one, while her father and her peculiar "uncle" were on the trail of a crime.   
The inspector looked at the innocent child at his feet, who seemed completely unaware of the seriousness of the situation.   
For a toddler of 18 months, Rosie was already extremely skilful and independent.   
Eager, full of energy and without even once turning her eyes away, she stacked a few building blocks in front of her to form a wobbly tower, tirelessly underlining what she was doing, in a language that she could only understand herself.   
The girl's forehead was folded, showing her concentration, and her blond curls were bobbing with every movement of her narrow head.   
Lestrade smiled gently.   
Unfortunately he had not yet been blessed with children of his own.   
To speak the truth: In his current situation he would certainly not have had time to change diapers and spend hours on the playground.   
Nevertheless, the sight of this little human being made him feel a little wistful and melancholic.   
Rosie seemed to have felt the gaze of the unfamiliar man, for she interrupted her game for a moment and turned to him.   
A radiance of childlike enthusiasm brightened her face and the blue eyes flashed with exitement.   
Lestrade noticed silently how alike this young lady was to her mother and another wave of melancholy struck him. Lestrade had always liked Mary.   
She had been a good, lively woman who, with her energetic yet warm character, had been a blessing for both, John and his stubborn friend.   
Her death had been tragic and to this day Lestrade could well understand how John felt about this terrible crime that had torn his wife away.   
In this difficult time he had tried to be there for the young father and his little daughter, like all their friends had.   
Especially Molly had taken care of the little girl and relieved John as much as possible.   
When Mrs Watson had passed away she had left a hole in the hearts of those who had to stay behind and the one-and-a-half-year-old certainly had to miss her most.   
It had truly been a stroke of luck that Mrs. Hudson had taken over Molly's role in Rosie's life now.   
Another change of caregivers would have been an additional burden for the small human soul.   
Just as Lestrade was about to reach for his teacup again, the elderly lady, armed with a tray on which a plate with a large piece of apple pie covered by a mountain of cream was enthroned, hurried out of the kitchen again and placed it clattering on the table in front of a bewildered inspector.   
Defensively Lestrade raised his hands.   
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. But you spoil me way too much.   
Besides, I don't think I can accept any more calories today."   
"Hogwash!"   
Without responding to the policeman's weak objection, Sherlock's landlady placed the plate into her defenseless guest's hand.   
"You truly deserve it, Inspector.   
Who works as hard as you do..."   
Greg reached for the fork with a dim smile.   
He knew the somewhat peculiar lady long enough to be sure that any contradiction would be futile from now on and that he would simply have to submit to his fate.   
In addition, Mrs. Hudson's apple pie was delicious and the sight alone was enough to make his mouth water.   
As he chewed, however, he noticed exactly how his counterpart watched him with a curious gleam in her eyes.   
The unasked questions silently filled the air.   
The inspector sighed inwardly.   
He actually had just come by to check on John's daughter and Mrs. Hudson.  
John had asked him to do so when he had called him a few hours ago.   
The inspector had been happy to do his friend this favor, for he had anyway planned to stop by before leaving for Stirling.   
At that time, however, he had not yet suspected that the stubborn woman would torture him with all sorts of goodies and prevent him from leaving.   
Greg could clearly feel her curiosity and impatience, combined with worries about Molly's well-being.   
At the beginning of his visit he had shortly informed her about the current events, careful not to reveal too much information - because he was aware that Mrs. Hudson was able to subliminally get informations.   
Especially her chatty tone, which she had just started again, was dangerous -Lestrade had learned this lesson in the meantime.   
"Rosie doesn't wake up at night any more, did you know that?   
Molly recently has told me that little Rosie is probably plagued by nightmares again and again - the poor child.   
Sometimes she even screams for her mother at night.   
It's bad, isn't it?"   
Before Lestrade could answer her question, she had already continued talking.   
"I would wish her father would be more present in her life.   
But apparently he doesn't really succeed.   
He loves his child - don't get me wrong.   
But sometimes he is so clumsy with her.   
Worse than Sherlock.   
And Sherlock can be a human catastrophe - you know that for sure yourself!   
Hopefully he will find Molly soon.   
He would owe it to her, after all that he has done to her in the past. "  
"What does that mean? What has he done to Molly?"   
Surprised, Lestrade shook his head.   
Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air outraged.   
"What a question! She has always cared for him and he has been so harsh to her all the time.   
Treated her like an employee.   
Ugh - a hideous behavior.   
My poor Molly.   
She's such a sweet thing, you know?"   
Inspector Lestrade didn't answer.  
"I wish he'd just been a little nicer to her, maybe all this then wouldn't have happened.   
He's lucky I'm not in her place."   
She irritatedly flicked her tongue .   
"I wouldn't have played his game that long."   
Greg shuddered slightly.   
Even though Mrs Hudson could be the kindest person on earth, it was not advisable to underestimate her.   
What exactly had happened to her last - deceased - husband in the States- the elderly lady had kept it a secret until now and avoided it talking about it by using counter-questions every time the topic came up. 

A glance at his wristwatch drove the inspector to his feet and towards the door.   
He would have to hurry if he wanted to be on his way north before rush hour started.   
On his way out he paused briefly to gently stroke Rosie over her head to say goodbye.   
"I understand your concern for Molly and I can only tell you once again on behalf of John how grateful he is that you are taking care for his child during his absence, but I really must leave now, Mrs.Hudson.   
The road to Stirling will take me many hours."   
"Stirling. Oh how wonderful.   
Say hello to my beautiful Stirling, Inspector!"   
Surprised, Greg paused.   
"You know Stirling, Mrs.?"   
"Of course, my late ex-husband - God have no mercy on his soul - and I have lived for several years in this sleepy Scottish nest.   
I still own an estate there.   
It's beautiful and includes even a large garden.   
You know, before, when my joints didn't hurt so much, I spent a lot of time caring for it.   
The beauty of a garden speaks for it's owner, doesn't it?  
But now that's no longer possible and it's better to have a cosy apartment in the centre of London."   
Astonished, Greg Lestrade scratched his head.   
"I didn't know at all that you have ever lived in Scotland.   
And you still own the house, you say?"   
"Well, you know, after the death of my ex-husband, I was felt like moving back to the big city.   
But I haven't been in the mood to sell it yet.   
It would be a pity, wouldn't it?!   
And you never know - maybe it will draw me there again sometime."   
Laughing quietly, Mrs. Hudson grabbed the tray and carried it back to the kitchen while Lestrade slipped into his coat.   
"It's not surprising you didn't know about this, Inspector.   
Few people know.   
I didn't tell anyone about it."   
"I see. Thanks for the cake and the tea, Mrs. Hudson. See you soon."   
Lestrade was already on his way out when Mrs. Hudson's voice reached him once more.   
"Well, almost nobody. Molly knew."   
The inspector immediately paused in his movement.   
Something told him to listen to the gnawing feeling that had just spread inside him.   
"Molly knows about your house in Stirling?"   
Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway once again, drying her hands on a tea towel.   
"For sure.   
Last summer, when she and her fiancé - what was his name again? Tony? James? - however....   
When she spent her holidays with him in the north of England, I asked her to have look if everything was fine there.   
After all, I come so rarely to this area.   
She was so reliable - as always, my good Molly.  
That's why I told her where in the garden the key to our holiday home on the coast is.   
She was fascinated by it."   
Lestrade's head buzzed.   
Too much information in too little time.  
Defensively he raised his hands.   
"Mrs. Hudson, please summarize! What key to what holiday home?"   
"Oh, my ex-husband imagined at some point that a holiday home - let's rather call it a ramshackle hut right on the rough Scottish sea - would be a good retreat.   
That's why we bought something like this back then.   
I have been there twice, if at all.   
The cold wind and the constantly changing weather - that is not what I like, you know?   
But Molly - she seemed to love the idea, so I told her where in my garden in Stirling the key to the cottage on the coast is hidden.   
I told her that she could take it at any time if she wanted to go on holiday." 

For a moment the inspector and the landlady stood opposite each other without a word, and then you could almost hear "the penny drop".   
Mrs. Hudson's hand, trembling with excitement, gapped her mouth as she looked at the inspector in horror.   
"You don't believe..."   
"Yes, Mrs Hudson, that's exactly what I think.   
Excuse me, I have to make an urgent phone call."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The streets of Stirling were empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends,   
> I'm really sorry you had to wait so long. I don't like it myself when I'm reading a story and it takes months the be able to read the next chapter but unfortunately I had to struggle with a health emergency in my family a few weeks ago and that kept me on my toes quite a bit, especially mentally. Unfortunately there was no writing to think about :/ But that's the way it is.... Anyway, I hope that I will be able to update a new chapter more often now!  
> Best regards  
> Franni

The streets of Stirling were empty.  
Despite it's important historical background, only a few tourists seemed to be visting the small Scottish town at this time of year.   
Its charme, however, could not be denied despite the rough climate.   
The narrow alleyways that stretched like extended arms between numerous more or less dilapidated rows of houses looked like they had fled the pages of a historical novel.   
Large flower boxes adorned the windowsills and a deep peace seemed to fill the air.   
In this place the world was still what it should be. Peaceful. It gave the impression as if it had been stuck in a time that surely had had it's downsides as well but had by now become a fairy tale in the people's mind.  
The venerable Stirling Castle, whose thick walls seemed to protect the main buildings from the outside world, enthroned the world at it's feet on a massive rocky plateau.   
All in all, Stirling was certainly worth a visit, but John couldn't explain why Molly - especially in her condition - had risked the long journey to travel to this sleepy Scottish nest.   
As far as the former army doctor could remember, Molly had no relatives other than her father.   
It was also unlikely that Molly had any friends living in this area.   
Sherlock may had formulated it way too insensitively and drastically, but John secretly had to agree with his friend:   
Molly seemed to have no social contacts despite them.   
Since he had first met the young pathologist, he had never seen her go out - apart from the time she had been engaged.   
Instead, she seemed to have burrowed herself into her work and on more than one occasion John had noticed sorrowfully how her loneliness slowly but steadily destroyed her.   
Contrary to the otherwise so astute master detective, John had always noticed the sadness in the eyes of the young woman.   
Already then - and now more than ever - John had hated himself for not acting in time, but merely silently registering the obvious suffering of a friend.   
He would have had enough time to intervene, to do what he could, and yet he never had had the courage to talk to Molly about it.   
If they found her - and by God, they had to - John had sworn to himself that he would fundamentally change his behavior towards this lovable woman.   
She should sense how important and valuable she was to all their lives and if Sherlock wasn't able to show it to her, John would do it himself.   
Slowly the sun set and bathed the roofs of the small stone houses in an unreal light.   
The twilight would soon begin to spread.   
Since their arrival in Stirling about three hours ago, the two men had been constantly roaming the deserted streets of the small town hoping to find a clue to Molly's whereabouts.   
So far they had been unsuccessful.   
Stirling's station was not large and the number of paths Molly could have been able to take was limited, but without an idea of where she had gone, it had been difficult to impossible to say which direction she had chosen.   
What had been her destination?  
Since no one seemed to be on the road at that hour, it was not an option to ask anyone.   
The joyful euphoria that John had felt at the London station when they finally had found a trail - it had already been blown away by the wind.   
Even though Stirling, with a population of just under 37,000, didn't seem to be a big city, it would take far too much time to check each house individually.   
Since they had left the train, Sherlock had not spoken a single word, but had fallen into his usual pattern of behaviour.  
This time John had found it a blessing.  
They had reached a silent agreement to let their disagreements rest for the case's sake.  
Sherlock hadn't had to lose many words - his tear-wet eyes and the desperate sparkle in them, when he had prevented John from getting on a train and returning to London a few hours earlier, had spoken volumes.   
Neither of them was good at dropping a word of apology - Sherlock even less than John.   
Therefore and in order not to torture his partner any further, John had left it at the few words that had come over the broken man's lips.   
"She means more to me than you may suspect, John."   
It was the confirmation of a fact John had been sure of for a long time anyway.   
And yet it was strange to know that even this calculating man, who seemed to have no emotions at all, was secretely haunted by them.  
Feelings he couldn't control and which were obviously uncommon to him.   
The doctor almost felt sorry for his comrade, but the thought of Molly and what she had had to endure for all these years called him back to order.   
Sherlock had had more than one chance to make up for what he had done.   
But instead of acknowledging his mistakes, he had pretended to be guiltless and by doing so, he had - spoken methorical - been digging the pit even deeper while he had been standing in it.   
In the meantime it had started to rain again slightly and the wind had freshened.   
It was well known that the weather in London could be changeable, but in the north of Scotland the weather conditions could be even more devastating.   
Following a hunch, John had checked the weather forecast for the coming hours online on their train ride and had therefore not been particularly keen on what was to follow.   
In the night heavy rainfalls combined with heavy wind gusts were to be expected, which would not make the search for Molly any easier certainly.   
The news advised against staying on the open road after 9 pm.   
A quick glance in Sherlock's direction, who was inspecting the contents of a garbage can at the moment, confirmed John's fears:   
It wouldn't be easy to convince the detective to find a place to stay for the night.   
John was certain that their search would be unsuccessful if they continued to wander the streets without a plan at nightfall.   
He too would have loved to continue searching for Molly right now, but John could feel that tiredness was gradually taking possession of him and if Sherlock was human at all he must have been feeling the same way.   
Just as John was about to call for Sherlock and make his suggestion - already preparing himself for an endless discussion - he felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket.   
He quickly pulled it out and took a look at the brightly lit display.   
Greg Lestrade.   
John's heart stopped for a second.  
Lestrade.   
That could only be good or fatal news that justified a call from the inspector.   
Were there any new findings?   
Had Molly been found?   
Was she alive?   
Or was there something wrong with Rosie?   
"Greg?"   
John's voice sounded scratchy and unusually hollow as he answered the call.   
"John - John, you won't believe me, but I think I know where Molly might be."   
It felt as if a heavy weight had been taken from his chest.   
The expected bad news had not come.   
In a few, brief sentences, the inspector reported on his conversation with Mrs Hudson and John could only agree with him:   
The small cottage on the Scottish coast sounded exactly like the retreat Molly might have chosen in her situation.   
Away from all people and far from the noisy streets of London - in total solitude.   
Although this was the best trace they had had in days, an strange, oppressive feeling spread through John's stomach area that he could not place.   
The former army doctor pushed the dark thoughts aside and quickly said goodbye to his friend in London.   
Lestrade had given him the address and it was now a matter of getting there as quickly as possible.   
"Where is this house?"   
John flinched in shock.   
He had been so concentrated on his conversation with Greg Lestrade that he had not noticed the detective who had approached him silently.   
It seemd like he had been able to listen to parts of the talk, which was why John only gave him the necessary information briefly.   
In Sherlock's eyes, a hopeful fire begun to flicker again and John as well was caught by a blazing euphoria once more.   
They would find Molly at any cost.   
In the 45 minutes that followed, however, the two men's optimism was being destroyed once more.   
As it turned out, there was no direct train connection to the small coastal village from where a footpath led to the remote bay.   
It was not possible to rent a car either, as the friendly - albeit somewhat grumpy - man, sitting in his car rental office in Stirling and leafing through the newspaper, told them. He just shrugged his shoulders regretfully , telling them that he had rented the last available car early this afternoon to a friendly tourist.   
John could feel the anger blazing high inside his friend and the former army doctor managed to pull the detective out of the store just in time before Sherlock could jump over the counter in rage.   
So close to their goal they seemed to be failing again.   
There was a bus connection at least, but the journey would take them several hours and the next possible departure date was announced for the early morning hours of the next day.   
Therefore they were forced, for better or for worse, to wait and stay here until then - which Sherlock obviously disliked.   
The detective wandered restlessly up and down the street.   
It would surely be an even harder challenge now to convince him to find a hotel or B&B in the meantime and yet John had to try.   
"Sherlock, there's nothing we can do right now, let's just..."   
"She's alone, John." The detective cut off his friend short.   
"She is all alone and on her own. She shouldn't be alone now."  
His voice trembeled, affected by suppressed emotions.   
"She should never be alone again."   
John felt that his friend was on the verge of collapse once again and instinctively he took a few steps towards him and pulled him into a tight hug.   
Sherlock had always abhorred physical contact, and he also immediately tensed at the touch of his friend.   
But John wouldn't let go.   
He was holding his friend close to his chest until he felt that his counterpart was gradually relaxing and surrendering to the embrace.   
Like a balloon slowly letting the air out, the detective sank down into his friend's arms and buried his face in the smaller man's shoulder.   
At this moment he looked more like a child seeking protection than the proud and strong man he used to be.   
John could hear the suppressed sobbing.   
Even if they found Molly unharmed - and he didn't believe so - Sherlock wouldn't be the same after that.   
The experiences of the past days had broken him and destroyed the wall of ice that had always surrounded him.   
Whether that was an advantage or a disadvantage would be seen in an uncertain future.   
For a long time the two men stood arm in arm in the dull light of the street lamp and for the first time John really didn't care what passers-by would think when they saw them standing like this.   
Now and here - he wanted to be nothing but support for his longtime friend.   
Maybe the detective hadn't deserve it, but he wouldn't have to go through this hell all by himself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little cottage had seen better days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends,   
> I'm really sorry you had to wait for so long. I don't like it myself when I'm reading a story and it takes months, but unfortunately I had to struggle with some family health issues in the recent past and that kept me me busy quite a bit, especially mentally. Unfortunately there was no writing to think about :/ But that's the way it is.... Anyway, I hope that I will be able to upload new chapter more often now!  
>  Franni

The little cottage had seen better days.   
The plaster crumbled from the walls.  
Dust covered the floor and window panes and a few crooked shelves which seemed to have given up their hold a long time ago were hanging over the bed.   
Only the numerous empty and already expired canned goods on the narrow kitchen row indicated that a human creature once had seemed to have lived here.   
The small hut was poorly furnished.   
Next to a small bed, there was only a shaky looking table with two chairs next to it, as well as a shabby wardrobe in the dark room.   
Mrs. Hudson's late husband seemed to has been a thrifty man who obviously hadn't cared about worldly possessions.   
Memories and experiences had apparently been much more important to him, which was indicated by a few, already slightly yellowed photos and written cards on the wall.   
The pictures showed mainly the rough scottish landscape.   
Photos that had surely been taken not too far from this place.  
Gentle green hills, endless beaches, grazing sheep and numerous different bird species.   
Apparently, Mr. Hudson had been a passionate amateur photographer.   
All in all - the interior of the cottage was not very inviting and placed the silent request to grab a broom at once.   
It probably wouldn't have taken much effort to give this place back some of its former charm.  
The sink would have had to be scrubbed, the floor to be swept and the window panes to be freed from cobwebs. Normally, the young pathologist would not have hesitated to grab a rag and get to work.   
But not today.   
Finally at her destination Molly felt for the first time in hours the leaden tiredness that she had sucessfully pushed aside for all this time.  
At that moment, she longed for nothing more than to lie down, close her eyes and silence the world around her for a few minutes.   
When she pulled the door behind her shut, it was immediately gloomy in the small room.   
Through the dust-covered windows, hardly any daylight penetrated into the interior of the cottage.   
Although a small door on her right hypothesized a bath and promised the possibility of a shower, Molly left her suitcase carelessly next to the table and threw herself lengthwise on the bed without hesitation.   
The mattress was old and not comfortable, but she didn't notice either that nor the musty smell of the stained duvet cover before she drifted into a restless sleep.

A deafening thunder woke Molly from a tangle of bizarre dreams a little later.   
For a moment she could hardly tell where she was and her gaze wandered restlessly along the walls until her gaze met the red suitcase standing only a few metres away.   
And with the sight of it the pain returned.   
But unlike before, this pain caused neither anger nor grief in her any more.   
The time of mourning, the time of anger was already over - these feelings no longer held her back.   
The pathologist laboriously rose from the bed and walked over to the kitchenette.   
Her arms hurt and the bandages showed some red spots that seemed to get bigger with time.   
Apparently the wounds had started to bleed again.   
But Molly didn't care any more.   
It wouldn't matter anyway now.   
She felt thirsty.   
Her lips were rough and cracked, as if they hadn't seen any water for days.   
In fact, Molly couldn't remember the last time she had drunk or eaten.   
It hadn't even occurred to her while traveling.   
On one of the shelves Molly found a halfway clean cup into which she let water run from the tap.   
The faucet still worked, even though the water splashed out irregularly and appeared to be anything but clean.   
Looking through the milky windows, Molly took a sip.   
No pleasure - the water tasted rusty and stale, but her thirst made her drink it up.   
Another flash of lightning bathed the little hut in an eerie, unreal light for a moment.   
Shortly afterwards, a deafening thunderclap followed.   
The storm seemed to be barely a few miles away now.   
The first gusts of wind were already tugging at the gables of the cottage and howled in the narrow shaft of the chimney like a pack of wild dogs.   
Molly didn't like thunderstorms and as a little girl she had even been afraid of them, but now she didn't feel anything like it.   
No fear.   
It seemed as if nature wanted to adapt to the silent screams of her soul.

'If it's true, then just say it.' 

The cup fell to the ground with a clink and broke into a thousand pieces.   
Her fingers had simply detached themselves from it. 

'I have no interest in wasting my time on worthless small talk, Molly.   
Find someone else you can bore with stories of your ordinary life, Molly.' 

Desperately she pressed her hands on her ears and tried to fade out the unyielding voice. 

'You can bring the coffee up to me. Black. Two pieces of sugar.' 

The walls seemed to come closer.

'That she is seeing him tonight is obvious.   
And she apparently has long time hopes which is obvious because she is bringing him a gift at all.   
She also seems to want to overcompensate the size of her mouth and breasts.' 

Another thunder broke the silence.   
Feeling mechanically Molly went over to her suitcase and opened it.   
She just had to rummage through the messy mountain of clothes for a moment to find what she had been looking for.   
The dark green fabric glided gently through her fingers.   
Despite the dull light it shone silky and proved high quality.   
Molly had never cared much about expensive clothes and it had rarely happened that she had felt the urge to buy a new piece.   
But she had fallen in love with this dress immediately a long time ago.   
She could still remember the day as if it had been yesterday.   
It had been a warm Wednesday in June, shortly after she first had met Sherlock Holmes.   
An encounter that had changed her life forever.   
She had been so filled with feelings - exciting and new to her - that the world around her had appeared brighter and happier than ever.   
All the hopes and dreams that had blossomed in her like flowers on a forest meadow in the spring, had moved her to go into the shop and buy this wonderful dress, which emphasized both, her figure and her eyes, and of which she had thought it would be for coming, happy days.   
She had never worn it since then.   
Today she would wear it.   
Though in pain, she took trousers and sweaters off her tortured body and let herself be wrapped in the green splendour.  
Time had passed, but it still suited her pretty well.   
But the joy and pride with which she had once tried it on was gone now.   
Slowly she released the clip that had held her hair together during the exhausting journey.   
Her now shoulder-long, nut-brown hair fell down on her shoulders in tangled strands, but for the first time in a long time she didn't care.   
Once more a bolt of lightning cast bright shadows into the room.   
It was the only light coming in from outside.   
It had to be in the middle of the night by now.   
The restrained tapping on the roof had become louder and louder in the past minutes and had risen to a persistent drumming.   
The rain, driven by the wind, whipped against the windows.   
But Molly barely heard it.   
The voice inside her faded out everything - it was like a veil that had fallen over her and kept everything else away from her.   
The voice that had accompanied her for so long and now seemed to be the only thing she could still perceive.   
The voice that had forced her to relive scenes from her past.   
The voice that was all that remained. 

'It is time. What are you waiting for? That's how it should be.'

And then Molly's feet began to move - one after the other, as if it had been predetermined.   
The narrow fingers enclosed the doorknob and turned it.   
The wind immediately grabbed her with it's icy fingers and threatened to tear her to the ground, but once more she fought against it.   
She didn't look back any more - she didn't risk another glance.   
Without hesitation she closed the door behind her.   
The rain was pouring down on her, was soaking her dress and hair within seconds, but she didn't stop.   
She neither could see a metre ahead, nor walk straight more than a step, but her legs carried her forward nevertheless. 

'Go ahead, my child. It is time. I am with you.'

The sand under her feet was wet and cold, the stones and shells lining the beach drilled painfully into the soles of her feet, but she couldn't feel it.   
Her gaze was fixed on a horizon, she could not see.   
Every step brought her closer.   
Only a few meters separated her from the beloved friend.   
It sounded as if it was calling for her.   
With a thundering voice it welcomed her.   
The sea raged.   
Metres high the waves were rising up and hitting the rugged cliffs with a deafening roar.   
A black, bubbling throat whose gurgling and howling echoed like screams from the rock walls.   
Nature once again put mankind in it's shadow.   
Nothing could stop this violence, nothing could change the course of things.   
Molly paused for a moment.   
Here, in exactly this place, she wanted to be.   
Nowhere else did she wanted to say farewell.   
The sea had been her first love and it would be her last.   
This was where she belonged.   
Here she could make her peace with the world and life. 

The first steps were difficult.   
The water still refused to accept her, but with every step the cool water surrounded her more.   
And finally the cold fingers of the ocean willingly grabbed her and carried her away with them.   
Soon she had lost the hold under her feet and suddenly it felt as if she was floating.   
The wind was still howling mercilessly over her head and hell seemed to surround her.   
The next wave collapsed over her and forced her down into the black nothingness.   
Panic rose in her - just a brief moment of doubt.  
But already the sea lifted her up again - let her take one last breath.   
And there they were again: the pictures that had tormented her so much for all this time.   
The detective who had broken their heart with his words and deeds and had robbed the rest of the will to live that had been inside her.   
And suddenly the panic was gone. 

'Let go. It's time.' 

The voice inside drowned everything out.   
Even the roar of the water no longer sounded in her ears.   
And Molly let go.   
Just as the next wave broke down over her she believed to hear a voice calling for her from far away , but in the next moment the noise had already stopped.   
This time the ocean didn't let her go any more her and she didn't resist.   
She yielded to her fate and for the first time in ages she felt alive and detached.   
Her body no longer belonged to her, but to her old friend.   
Here it was quiet and peaceful.   
The storm inside and around her - both had fallen silent.   
Nothing could break this peace anymore, nobody could destroy this silence.   
The ocean gently rocked her in it's arms and carried her away to the place she had wanted to go for so long.   
The darkness surrounded her, but this time she would not escape.   
It was time to go. 

 

 

It came out of nowhere, but suddenly she could feel that through the darkness something was grabbing her at her wrist and an invisible force was pulling her back up again.   
The voice in her fought back and screamed:   
'No, let us go. Let go!' 

But suddenly there was another voice inside her and it contradicted, calmly and clearly: 'Don't go!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strong hands were holding her - wouldn't let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go :) What do you think?

Strong hands were holding her - wouldn't let her go.   
For a brief moment her mother's words came to her mind when she had spoken about angels of the Lord who were watching over everyone.   
'Whatever decision we make, my child, whichever path we take, we are never alone'.   
In the past the firm faith of her mother had given Molly strength, but over the years she had lost it bit by bit.   
The hope for the good in the world had disappeared with time and the opinion had formed that nobody but herself would be able to save her in the end.   
She had been mistaken and just now - with her feet already set on the threshold - she felt as if she had been transported back to that carefree time when trusting had still been easy for her.   
Thrown back and forth between unconsciousness and awakeness, Molly couldn't tell what was going on around her.   
It felt like a dream even though she was aware that it couldn't be one.  
All that seemed real to her tight now were the strong hands that kept her from falling - that brought her back into a world where she no longer wanted to be in.   
A world she had wanted to escape from.   
Hands that clearly conveyed the message: 'Don't go.'

As she broke through the surface of the water, the cold air hit Molly like a slap in the face and only as she gasped and took a deep breath she could suddenly feel how much her lungs had been burning and demanding for oxygen.  
The pain overwhelmed her for a moment and everything went black for a second.  
The following minutes felt like a mental blank.   
Again and again her mind tried to fight it's way back into reality, while her body obviously had already given up.   
It was a horrible feeling and if she had been able to scream loudly, she would have done it.   
The rain whipped down on her and seemed to want to push her back down into the dark chasm, but the strong hands held her firmly.   
Then she suddenly felt the ground under her feet again - the wet, cold sand between her toes.   
But she couldn't see a thing - the world around her was distant and intangible.   
She wasn't able to get on her feet - her legs gave in under her again and again.   
She no longer had the strength to fight it and finally she just let herself fall.   
But the strong hands caught her once more, lifted her up and carried her away - into the darkness.  
When Molly opened her eyes again, she could see a flickering light on her right.  
The roar of the sea could now only be heard as a soft thunder in the distance and the rain drummed onto the roof above her head again instead of soaking her skin.   
Molly's mind struggled a bitto find it's way back into reality and it took some time for her to realize that she was lying on the dirty bed of the little cottage again.   
But something was different than before.   
When she turned her head, she could tell the reason:   
In the small fireplace, which had been full of cobwebs a few hours earlier, a low fire was crackling and filling the small room with considerable warmth.   
The interior of the old hut immediately seemed much friendlier and more comfortable.   
Molly's gaze was spellbound by the blazing flames as a movement near the chimney ripped her from her thoughts.   
From the shadow of the corner a figure emerged and approached her.   
Frightened, Molly flinched back and stared at her counterpart in surprise.   
She knew these striking golden-yellow eyes - she had seen them before - but she didn't know how to classify them at that moment.   
There was no name to this face in her mind. For a moment they both remained silent, then the stranger cleared his throat and held out a glass of water to Molly.   
His gaze was friendly and a gentle smile played around his lips.   
"How do you feel? Here, you should drink this."   
When Molly didn't react immediately, he placed the glass on the bedside table and then turned to the fireplace to add some firewood.   
He continued talking without facing her.   
"I saw you walking into the sea.   
And I just ran after you."   
He turned back to her again.   
"Mrs, you scared the hell out of me!"   
He smiled and yet his facial expression revealed that he still seemed to be in shock.   
Only then did Molly notice the exhausted impression on the stranger's face.   
His clothes were soaked with water and his slightly wavy blonde hair was falling into his face in strands.   
Apparently, he had put all his energy into getting them out of the floods and into the dry without thinking of himself.   
A wave of guilt hit her and a thousand of apologies came to her mind - none of which she was able to pronounce.   
He obviously could tell what she was thinking for he immediately raised his hands to appease her.   
"Don't worry, Ms.   
It's nothing that any true gentleman wouldn't have done for a beautiful woman."   
For a moment she felt flattered, but then her inner voice called her back to order.   
She didn't know this man and even though he looked familiar to her she didn't know his name or why he he had thrown himself into the floods to save her.   
The stranger seemed to interpret her thoughtful look correctly, because he sighed, put another piece of wood in the fire and then pulled a chair to him - careful not to get too close to her.   
"It must probably seem completely crazy to bring oneself into mortal danger for a stranger.   
But believe me, it was an easy decision.   
I couldn't help it."   
As he was fdriving his fingers through his still damp hair, she registered his large hands.   
Strong hands that had held her tight.   
Her counterpart was generally of a very tall stature.   
He had to be at least 1.95 meters tall.   
He also seemed to be a bit older than her, which was revealed by the numerous laughter lines along his eyes.   
She estimated him to be in his mid 40s.  
For his age, however, he was in an exceptionally good shape.   
Under his wet shirt his muscular upper arms could be seen.   
It could not be denied - the stranger was an attractive man who seemed to be quite aware of his qualities.   
The only thing that didn't fit into the perfect picture were his eyes.   
With their golden yellow colour they stood out from the angular face.   
She could not tell what it was, but his gaze caused an inner restlessness inside her.   
His eyes reminded of the glowing pupils of a predator. 

Molly swallowed depressed.   
Even in her present hopeless situation, she seemed to see the worst everywhere.   
This man had saved her.   
He had risked his own life to save hers.   
Shouldn't that be reason enough to trust him?   
He seemed to recognize her doubt, for after a short hesitation he politely stretched out his hand to her.   
"Excuse my thoughtless behaviour, I haven't even introduced myself to you yet.   
Mike.   
Mike Mc Gordan."   
For a moment Molly remained undecided, then she shook the offered hand with a matte smile.   
"Molly. Mollx Hooper."   
His eyes immediately lit up.   
"Molly. What a beautiful name.   
It's rare to find one called that these days."   
He laughed hoarse before continuing.   
"But that's actually something good, isn't it?   
Rare means special. "  
Surprised, she returned his look.   
"Special you're saying?  
I always thought it to be ordinary."   
"No, not at all.   
You know, that is what I do in my spare time.   
I am interested into onomatology.   
An interesting topic, really.   
You can't even imagine how the name influences the life of every human being.   
The parents' revenge for 18 years of taking care of us."   
With a wink he leaned back on his chair and stretched out his legs.   
Molly also gradually relaxed.   
Mike seemed to be friendly and in a chatty mood.   
This only pleased the young pathologist, because this way she didn't have to face the past hours.   
She felt unable to do so now.   
So she continued asking.   
"What do you do for a living, Mike?"   
Instantly a mischievous smile lay on his lips.   
"Take a guess!"   
She didn't feel like playing a guessing game right now but since every distraction was fine with her at the moment she played along.   
"Do you work in industry? There seems to be a lot going on up here in the north regarding the industry."   
He shook his head.   
"Maybe a doctor? Or a paramedic? After all, you saved me."   
"I do have a lifeguard card, but no, I'm not from the medical field."   
She looked at him helplessly.   
In the meantime the tiredness had returned and she had no strength for further considerations.   
Mike seemed realize it because he didn't challenge her any further, but put his elbows on his knees and handed her the glass from the bedside table so she could drink a few sips of water.   
"Teacher.   
I teach English history and mathematics at a boarding school for boys."   
"And sport, too, I suppose?"   
The sentence had slipped out of her mouth before she had been able to think about it.   
Embarrassed by her own words, she flinched, but Mike just laughed warmly.   
"Well, from time to time I do support the gym teachers."   
Her discomfort seemed visible to him for he stood up and filled her glass under the sink again to give her some private space.   
"But what about you, Molly? What do you do in your everyday life?"   
"I work at the forensic institute of St. Barts Hospital."   
Molly sighed and quietly added a "worked".   
He didn't seem to have noticed, because he just kept talking.   
"A pathologist.   
A very interesting career.   
What's it like?   
Isn't it unbearable to be surrounded by death every day?"   
It was a new and unknown feeling that someone really seemed to be interested in her life.   
It had just been a simple question and yet it was filling Molly with pride for a moment.   
She was proud to be able to tell someone of what she had once made her mission in life.   
Something that repelled most people and filled them with disgust.   
But obviously not Mike.   
His gaze showed genuine interest in the matter and a desire to learn more.   
"One gets used to everything over time I think."   
She smiled.   
"It's always been my desire to get to the bottom of things - to find the cause behind the horrible."   
"You went down this road because you were just curious?"   
He seemed unconvinced.   
"No, it wasn't just that."   
She silently asked herself - questioned her career choice and came to the conclusion that she could confide it to her counterpart.   
"You know - what really made me choose this profession are the people on the other side of the glass pane.   
The relatives.   
The loving friends, family members and acquaintances who have to deal with all the pain and loss and who can hope for nothing more than to know the truth.   
The truth about what happened to their loved one.   
The truth behind the terrible.   
At least I want to give them this certainty.   
Nothing is more ungracious than not knowing.   
Do you understand? "  
Something in his gaze suddenly irritated her.   
It was as if a shadow had flitted over his face for a brief moment.   
But she couldn't be sure, because he already looked at her again with unrestricted attention and nodded understandingly.   
"A truly noble attitude, Molly. You can be admired."   
For a short moment he turned his gaze away from her and looked out the window, lost in thought.   
When he looked back at her again she already suspected which question he would ask her next.   
But no question came - it was rather a statement that followed.   
"He has broken you.   
He has driven you to do the terrible thing.   
He's a monster."   
She didn't know how to answer, she was too surprised by his sudden change of topic.   
His words suddenly sounded harsh and cold.   
Judging.   
And yet she could not contradict him.   
A single tear ran down her cheek and before she could wipe it aside, he had already stretched out his hand and taken it from her skin with a tender touch.   
Involuntarily she flinched.   
His fingers had been soft and yet it had felt like an electric strike to her.   
The voice inside her screamed, but she couldn't understand it.   
"You should try to get some sleep, you're obviously exhausted."   
He got up, went to the closet and took out a blanket, which he put on the bed next to her.   
"If you feel cold tonight."   
She briefly registered that he seemed to know the furniture of this forgotten cottage far too well, but the tiredness had already drew her back into her spell.   
She tried to fight it, but it was a hopeless try.   
As she fell asleep she could hear his steps moving away.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heavy sigh, the inspector drove into the motorway service area.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go :) I am trying my best to keep writing ;)

With a heavy sigh, the inspector drove into the motorway service area.   
Greg Lestrade felt exhausted.   
This case broke his nerves and made him feel even older.   
He had just been driving for four hours without a break - something he used to avoid under normal circumstances.   
As a dutiful man and police inspector, he paid meticulous attention to the traffic rules and health conditions a driver should be in.   
Today was the exception that confirmed the rule.   
He was certainly too tired to drive a car and there was no doubt that he had violated the speed limits several times in the past hours.   
He knew it was wrong and irresponsible of him and yet he couldn't help it.   
Something urged him to hurry.   
Surely he behaved like that because Molly was a friend.   
But it wasn't just that.   
The oppressive feeling lingering in his stomach hadn't improved since he had left London in the morning.   
Instead it had rather intensified itself.   
The call he had received from his colleagues at Scotland Yard just an hour ago had only nourished the silent fear within him.   
What had been said to him from Scotland Yar had been little reassuring.   
On any other day the news would have been convenient to him.   
It concerned a case that Scotland Yard had been dealing with for some time now.   
Over the past few months, women of different ages had disappeared in and around London.   
They had all been reported missing and their bodies had been found after some time at various crime scenes.   
There was no trace leading to the murderer.  
There had been no clues or anything.   
He seemed to proceed with great precision, because the homicide squad was groping in the dark.   
The case was extremely frustrating and had given Greg some sleepless nights.   
Whenever he had thought that he had taken a step closer to the murderer, a new mutilated corpse had appeared and posed another mystery to the police.   
The perpetrator didn't seem to make any mistakes, which made the investigation rather difficult.   
And he was cruel.   
Lestrade had seen numerous murders during his career and yet the sight of the Phantom's victims - as he had already been called by the media - always had shell-shocked him.   
It was unmistakable that the phantom seemed to enjoy the killing process and he obviously didn't shy away from any method of torture.   
It did not seem to be enough for him, to eviscerate his victims.   
Instead, several corpses had been found with their organs removed and draped in a bizarre pattern around the heads of the deceased.   
A precision that even stunned the pathologists of Scotland Yard.   
Moreover, each of the women had had a number been carved into her upper arm and he had always stolen something from her corpse.   
Apparently he counted his successes and collected trophies. The wedding ring of one of his victims' had been gone, another one's hair had been removed and another had had a toe cut off.   
A connection between the women had not yet been found.   
They had all lived completely different lifes, they had not been of the same age and had apparently never met before, which made the assumption of a deliberate murder unlikely.   
He probably chose his victims by chance and did not seem to have a clear scheme of prey.   
By that it was nearly impossible to predict where and when he would strike next.   
In some months a new corpse, which seemed to fit into his pattern, had been found almost daily and then he had remained completely calm again for a few weeks.   
Lestrade had felt like standing in front of an almost insurmountable mountain.   
The whole city was frightened.  
The media heated up the hysterical mood even more and in many places women hardly dared to go out onto the streets.   
There was no description of the perpetrator.   
It could have been anyone - even the friendly neighbour. 

To this day.   
Greg had been told on the phone that the phantom seemed to become careless, because there was now a testimony of a witness who had seen the perpetrator at the crime scene.  
The witness had been able to describe the man.   
Tall, of athletic stature.   
An angular face with striking, protruding eyes.   
Large hands.   
In his mid 40s.   
Fashionably dressed.   
A typical London business type.   
The perfect camouflage in the big city.   
Actually Lestrade should have been happy about this news, but the story had a sequel.   
Of course, the colleagues had immediately made a identikit picture and had it published nationwide.   
The population was asked for their assistance.   
And within a few hours, Scotland Yard had received two important calls.   
One caller believed that he had recognized the man on the drawing and had been able to provid the police a name:   
Conor O'Brien.   
All the details according this person were immediately assembled.   
And Conor fit perfectly into the picture.   
Born in a poor suburb of Dublin and marked by a difficult childhood.   
An alcoholic father.   
His mother committed suicide when Conor was just seven years old.   
Several unsuccessful stays in foster families followed.   
Numerous arrests for drug abuse, trespassing and physical violence in his youth.   
But when he had turned 25, the entries in the criminal record suddenly had stopped.   
It almost seemed as if Conor had suddenly become a law-abiding citizen from one day to the next and had got his life under control.   
But Greg knew better.   
A criminal past like Conor's didn't just vanish into thin air.   
This man was dangerous and willing to do anything - that was certain.   
Should Conor be responsible for the murders of the women, it would only be a matter of time before he would strike again.   
He seemed to have just been waiting for a suitable victim.   
And that was exactly what Lestrade was worried about.   
The second call received by Scotland Yard had been made from Stirling.   
Ms. Jennings stated that she had seen Conor on the street in front of her terraced house the other night.   
Scotland Yard questioned this statement.   
What would drive a calculating murderer from his hunting ground in the big city to the province of the north?   
Conor O'Brien wanted to be seen.   
He wanted to put on a show.   
But who would give him that up there?   
It just didn't make any sense - not for the policemen of Scotland Yard.   
But for the inspector who was heading in this direction right now.   
It had been a nasty premonition that was now becoming more and more intense.   
For a long time he had convinced himself that it was just a strange coincidence - that Molly's disappearance had nothing to do with this man.   
But the closer he got to his destination, the more the warning voice rose in him.   
The irrevocable instinct of a policeman came to life.   
Molly was injured and probably weakened.   
She had tried to take her own life, had lost her will to live and was all alone.   
But he feared that it would not stay that way for long. 

Determined, the inspector started the engine of his car once more and hit the highway again.   
He would take a break later.   
From now on every minute counted, he could clearly feel that.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The icy wind of the sea was hitting the two men's faces mercilessly and was driving tears into John's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go - please keep writing comments :)

The icy wind of the sea was hitting the two men's faces mercilessly and was driving tears into John's eyes.  
Several times his feet had already lost their grip on the damp, moss-covered ground and once this circumstance had almost caused an awful fall.  
It was impossible to walk any faster even though time was running short.  
The former army doctor clenched his teeth and rubbed over his face with the sleeve of his coat once more - it was pointless anyway, for he still could hardly see the road on which they were walking west.  
Well - one could hardly call it a road.   
It looked more like an overgrown and uneven path.  
Had it not been for Lestrade's brief description, they probably wouldn't have found it at all.  
It was a real question if they were even walking on the right track.  
To John it all looked the same after all.   
Soft valleys coverd by damp grass and some small dunes.   
In the disteance one could adumbrate the sea which was now coverd by a thick cloud of mist creeping from the coldness of the Atlantic ocean.  
The further they went towards the sea, the more lonely and unreal the nature around them seemed to become and John had to agree with Lestrade's statement:  
This place seemed to be just the right refuge for a person in Molly's mental state.   
Far away from any civilization and completely isolated.  
In other circumstances, this untouched beauty of nature may have owned a certain charm, but now it only intensified the oppressive feeling of despair and hopelessness.  
An environment like made for tragedy.  
John tried to walk in Sherlock's slipstream, even though it took him a lot of effort to keep up with the tall man.  
The detective headed forward without stopping or turning around.  
He hadn't spoken a word since they had left Stirling hours ago and John hadn't asked him to.   
He was too lost in his own thoughts as well.  
They now seemed to be closer to Molly than they had been for days and yet John felt subconsciously that they were further away from her than ever.  
The unpleasant feeling could not be shaken off and Sherlock seemed to experience the same nightmare.  
The bus ride had lasted for hours and when the two men had finally set off on foot from the small coastal town towards the sea, dusk had already set in.  
Meanwhile it was almost dark and the strong winds, paired with the huge cloud mountains of clouds, piling up on the horizon, could not to be good harbingers.  
A heavy storm was approaching.  
The worst possible time for a hike along the Scottish cliffs.

Sherlock slowed his pace only when they reached the edge of a ledge from which a narrow trail led down into a hidden bay.  
Almost completely hidden in the darkness, a small cottage nestled against the rocky face of the cliffs down there.   
This had to be the cottage the inspector had told them about.  
Without hesitation, the detective began the climb down.  
More careful the doctor followed his friend.  
The wind carried the spindrift of the sea over to them and made the rocky ground even weter and a test of their surefootedness.  
Only when John could feel the sandy ground of the beach under the soles of his shoes did he relax a little.  
They had made it.  
Now they were only a few meters away from Molly.   
And the doctor sent silent prayers to heaven that they would not find what he was expecting.  
The tide had conquered most of the beach already and had only left a narrow band between sea and rock.  
John was exhausted - his lungs were burning and he was plagued by stitches.  
There was not much left of his former shape as an army doctor.  
But he could figure this issue out at any other time.  
Ignoring the pain, he followed his friend.  
Sherlock had started to run.  
Only when the detective had reached the front door did he pause.  
It seemed as if he had lost his courage on the last meters.  
But the hesitant rigidity was only of short duration and even before John had caught up with his partner, the detective had entered the cottage.  
The sight John was confronted with when he had taken the first step over the threshold was a sight of pure horror.  
Despite the darkness, one could see that almost all of the furniture had been violently knocked over.  
The floor was littered with broken pieces and Molly's red suitcase had carelessly been thrown aside into a corner.  
The scraps of clothing lying here and there in the dirt could only be her clothes.  
But the most striking thing was the blood.  
It was pretty everywhere.   
On the floor, the side of the table - even bloody fingerprints on the walls.  
John couldn't stop the tears from falling and he was no longer able to take another step.  
"No. God, no."  
For a moment John had trouble locating his friend in the semi-darkness, but then his eyes found him in the back of the cabin.  
"Sherlock?"  
The detective sat crouched near the wall and seemed to bend over something John couldn't tell for sure what it was because the overturned dining table blocked his view.  
As he approached carefully, however, he could see that it was not a 'something'.  
It was someone.  
Someone from whom only could be heard a suffocated cough.  
Horrified, the young father stopped.  
He had expected everything, including the worst case, but not that.  
In front of him on the floor his best friend was sitting in a pool of blood and held his dying brother in his arms.

 

A few hours earlier:

When Molly opened her eyes the first thing she felt was the pain.  
A terrible throbbing that seemed to spread from her wrist all over her body.  
Her gaze was blurred and only with a great amount of effort she managed to turn her head.  
She was still in the small hut and the reddish light of the setting sun shone through the windows.  
She seemed to have slept through the whole day.   
But there was no time for her to wonder about it, because the pain increased more and more.  
A glance along her arms revealed the reason:  
A long, though thin, bleeding cut could be seen along the bandage on her right wrist.   
Pain-filled, Molly gasped and closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could drive away the pain like a bad dream.  
But the pain remained and her despair increased.  
What had happened?  
Had she unconsciously injured herself again?  
She was not able to tell.  
The last tangible memory were the golden-yellow eyes, which watched her attentively.

As if he had heard her thoughts, his movement revealed his presence.  
Molly flinched.  
She could only see him schematically in the darkness of the room, but what she did see was the flashing knife in his hand.  
He no longer bothered to hide it from her.  
She was ready.  
Molly froze.  
It felt like she was being strangled.  
Now it could no longer be denied - this man was an acute threat to her.  
He had not come to save her.  
He had come to kill her.  
The realization struck Molly like a blow and for the first time in months, the will to live in her came up and unmistakably urged her to fight for her life.  
Despite the dizziness and the rising nausea, she got out of bed.  
She could barely hold her balance and had no choice but to stagger backwards against the wall.  
He didn't move, just watching her from his position at the other end of the room. Like a lurking animal ready to jump, he remained where he was and didn't let her out of his focus for just a moment.  
The panic rose in Molly and took her voice from her.  
She wanted to yell at him and hit him with her fists - but she felt like paralysed.  
He seemed to read the unasked question in her gaze, for after a while he took a step forward and began to speak.  
Quiet and smug.  
There was nothing left of the former courtesy and friendliness.  
It almost seemed as if he was not even talking to her, but to himself.  
"I knew from the first moment that you would be something special.  
That you would add a new aspect to the game.  
And you haven't disappointed me so far."  
He stepped out of the shadows and slowly approached her.  
"You are so different. So refreshing."  
Meanwhile they were barely a meter apart.  
Molly retreated more and more - wished she could become one with the wall.  
But he came even closer to her until she could feel his hot breath on her cheeks.  
His fingers stroked briefly over her face.  
"Normally I don't touch my toys, but with you I could make an exception."   
With these words he grabbed her by the arm so that Molly gasped in pain.  
He pulled her towards him.  
She now stood as close as possible to him and couldn't wriggle out of his grip.  
Through his pants she could feel his arousal pressing hard against her body and only a moment later she felt his wet lips on her neck.  
His teeth buried painfully in her skin.  
His voice was hoarse with pleasure and it sounded like a threatening rumble.  
"Let's have some fun before I will send you on your journey.  
You've already chosen this path anyway.  
I will help you go it until the end."

This sentence - it hit her like a lightning and brought her back to reality again.  
It was as if her senses suddenly obeyed her again.  
He was right.  
She had chosen this path, but it was her path.  
She would decide where he would lead her and she would go it on her own.  
It was her choice.  
Not his.  
Not Sherlock's and nobody else's.  
She wouldn't give up her life to that monster now, no matter how worthless it seemed to her.  
Never.   
She waited until she felt his demanding lips against her skin once more, then she pulled her knee up with all her might.  
She didn't miss her target and - whimpering in pain - he took a few steps back.  
The knife fell clinking to the ground.

'Run, don't hesitate!'

Her inner voice drove her forward.  
Molly's steps were unsteady, but she managed to reach the door.  
Just as she was about to turn the handle, she felt his hand grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her back.  
With full force her body collided with the cupboard and the fierceness of the impact robbed her of her senses for a moment.  
Her head pounded and she could feel blood running along her temple, but she still tried to escape crawling on her knees.  
All her muscles were aching, but she knew she had to run from that monster.  
She could hear his heavy footsteps behind her coming closer.  
"You little bitch..."  
Roughly he grabbed her and pulled her up by the hair, so that Molly screamed in pain.  
By force he pushed her onto the dining table and tore her dress up.  
His hands were strong and cold like iron.  
She could see the insanity flashing in his eyes.  
"I will teach you some manners, I swear, you little bitch."  
She tried to get herself away from him, to turn away, to escape his steel grip, but she had no chance.  
She had had had the opportunity to escape, but she hadn't been fast enough.

Just when she thought it was over and she would have to submit to the horrible, she heard the sound of wood shattering behind her.  
"Molly!"  
She knew this voice.  
She had heard it so many times before.  
With all his might he threw himself against her attacker and pushed him away from her.  
"Mycroft!"  
Gasping, Molly crawled from the table and staggered towards the door, which was now only hanging crooked in it's hinges.  
Behind her she could hear the two men fighting.  
Furniture was knocked over, glass shattered.  
She coulnd't move until the voice of the elder Holmes brother ripped her from her numbness.  
"Run Molly, flee."  
And then she turned around and ran.  
Her legs were hardly able to carry her -they felt numb - and she could hardly see anything, yet she ran on.   
Always straight ahead over the wet sand - away from this horrible place.  
Tears ran down her face and mixed with her blood.

'Run, don't look back.'

Shortly afterwards a shot echoed from the rock faces. 

 

Mycroft's blood had already soaked the rotten floorboards.  
The shot had hit him in the chest.  
As a long-time doctor with war experience, John just had to take a quick glance, to know that any help would come too late for the older Holmes brother.  
The wound was too deep, he had lost too much blood, and certainly internal organs had also been seriousely injured.  
Death was already standing on the threshold and could not be turned away.  
John Watson had never thought much of Mycroft Holmes.  
The sensitive doctor had never been able to comprehend his hard, cold and emotionless behaviour and he had strongly condemned his tactless character.  
'There are no feelings inside this man' - that was what he had thought about him.  
But as he now saw the usually so proud, distinguished and academic man of the government lying in front of him on the dusty floor of the old hut, John was no longer sure of that.  
In Mycroft's dull eyes there was neither arrogance nor pride written in them, but despair, fear and something John had never expected to see in the eyes of the elder Holmes : love.  
Unconditional love with which he looked up to his little brother, who hunkered over him, rigid with shock.  
"Little brother, are you surprised to see me?"  
Mycroft's voice was weak and it seemed to cost him all his strength to speak and yet he did not remain silent.   
"I couldn't let her die, Sherlock.  
She is something special, you know that, little one."  
A choked sound came out of his throat and John could clearly see that a shiver was shaking Sherlock's body.  
Never ever had he heard Mycroft Holmes calling his brother his 'little one'.  
It was totally unfamiliar.  
Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, seemed to gather energy and then continued to speak - barely perceptibly.  
"She was my salvation, Sherlock.  
And she will be yours too."  
A tear ran down his cheek and John couldn't tell if it had come from Sherlock's or Mycroft's eyes.  
He wasn't able to see his friend's face.  
The dark curls had fallen into the detective's forehead.  
"She deserves so much more."  
Mycroft spoke now only faltering.  
Breathing seemed to be increasingly difficult for him.  
And then, as if all the past years of tension and anger hadn't existed, Sherlock pulled his big brother into his arms and placed his head on his brother's chest.   
For a moment, the brothers remained silent and just seemed to want to enjoy the last moments of intimate closeness, before Mycroft raised his hand with his last strength and stroked Sherlock across his face, looking for his gaze.   
"Little brother, do me a favor and give love a chance.  
A life without emotional context protects you from pain, but it's not worth living."  
A broken laugh broke from Sherlock's mouth.  
As Mycroft's breath became shallow, Sherlock pulled him even closer to himself and gently rocked him in his arms as if to calm a crying child.  
John thought it was already over when Mycroft's voice could be heard one last time - nothing more than a whisper.  
"I am proud of you, Sherlock. I always have been."  
With these words Mycroft Holmes took his last breath, then he lied still, in the arms of the man who had always acted like he didn't care about his family at all.  
A deafening silence suddenly filled the room.  
The silence of death - John knew it all too well.  
There was nothing to do, nothing to say - he could only stand there in the dark room, next to his best friend who was holding his dead brother in his arms and still gently rocking back and forth.  
It took a few moments until the incomprehensible had reached the detective's subconscious.   
Slowly Sherlock began to free himself from his rigidness and his body was overwhelmed by the grief.   
At first only his shoulders winced a bit, but soon you could hear the normally so emotionally cold man sobbing broken.  
"Mycroft. Mycroft" it came trembling over his lips.  
John remained nothing more than to look down on his friend who clung to his dead brother like a drowning man on a life belt, knowing that the loss of his brother had broken his friend's heart forever.


End file.
